Mama Amara made a house feel like a home the moment you walked in. An extra plate, a chair pulled out, your name said as if she had been waiting. The grandchildren still look for her in the doorway.

This photograph is how I will remember her — present, warm, and paying attention. Looking at this picture I can hear her telling the story behind it, as if we were still on the sofa.

She taught me how to sit with people. Not to fill the quiet, not to fix it — just to stay. That was her real gift, and I am still learning it.

When things were hard she didn't make a speech. She came, and she stayed, and she put the kettle on. We leaned on that more than we knew.

I keep reaching for the phone to tell her something small. A neighbour's news. Something one of the children said. She always had time. She did not make you feel you had interrupted her.

We used to sit with the album and she would name every face. Who married whom. Who had the laugh. Who had died before I was born. I wish I had written them down. I can still hear her turning the page.

Amara never let anyone leave hungry. I can still hear her in the kitchen on a Sunday — the lid on the pot, and the way she called you in before you had taken your shoes off. I thought that was just how houses were. It was how she was.

I learned how to be a neighbour by watching Amara.

I'll keep this one. She looks like herself here.

Rest now. We will look after one another the way you taught us.

She kept every letter. We found them in the drawer by the window.

She was the one who remembered birthdays, school plays, and who needed a plate sent over.

She would have been the first to ask if you'd eaten.

Her laugh could turn a tired afternoon. I miss that most.

This is the smile that met you at the door.

Thank you for the extra seat at the table, always.

We are better for having been loved by Amara.