Losing my grandfather, Edmond Joseph Cadran, felt like having the ground ripped out from under me. I lived in California with my mother and stepfather while he was 2,933 miles away in Massachusetts. I had come to California at just three years old, and even though my grandparents visited and I flew back to see them, it was never enough. Our time together always felt fleeting.

Pictures of my grandparents filled our house, and happy moments were captured in frames. I often stared at them, wishing I could relive those smiles. I still remember watching a train go by one summer day, asking if people could ride it. My grandfather promised me he would take me on a train one day. That day would never come.

In December 1984, my grandfather went into the hospital for open-heart surgery. My family flew in to support him and my grandmother, but I was told I had to stay in California. I begged my mom to take me with her, but it didn’t happen. She returned home after the surgery, which was initially successful. However, complications arose, and on December 16, 1984, he passed away at U-MASS Hospital at the age of 61. He often joked throughout his life that he believed the feline species was spelled “CADRAN” instead of “CAT,” claiming he had nine lives.

When my mom flew back to be with family for his funeral, I was once again left behind, told I was too young to attend. It was one of the hardest and loneliest feelings to grieve alone while my loved ones gathered to say goodbye. I often wondered how my mother and grandmother found the strength to endure such a loss.

My grandmother found love again over the years, but she never stopped talking about my grandfather, the love of her life. I spent a few weeks with her almost every summer, always wishing I lived closer. Lorraine Faye Cadran passed away on August 22, 2021, at the age of 89. She was the last of seven children, leaving behind four children, ten grandchildren, and nine great-grandchildren. Their love story remains a cherished part of my heart, a reminder of the strength of love and memory. Even as I write this 40 years later, it still makes me cry.