Amara grew up in a house full of cousins, cooking, and the expectation that you looked after people. She was the child who noticed when someone was left out, and the one her parents trusted with the younger ones. Those early years stayed with her — a habit of care that never became a performance.

Home was her great work. Amara made room at the table without fuss, remembered what each grandchild liked, and kept the photographs in order so the family would not lose the names. Her children say the house still feels like her: the kettle, the garden, the way a visitor was never a disruption.

She taught, volunteered, and knew her neighbours by name. Amara believed a community was built in small returns — a plate sent over, a lift to the clinic, a seat saved at the back of the hall. People came to her with news first, because she would listen all the way through.

Mornings in the garden. Afternoons with the album or a bit of knitting by the window. Amara found pleasure in ordinary things and taught the rest of us to notice them. Those hours — unremarkable at the time — are the ones people keep telling now.