When I was little, my grandparents, my mother’s parents, lived in a two-story, white house in Central Village, Connecticut. The house sat right on the street with a railroad track just on the other side. When the trains came, you swore they would go right through the house. I remember that sound. I remember that feeling. As I loved trains, I always thought it a wonderful feeling. The only other good thing I remember from there was my grandmother. My grandparents were French-Canadian, Gagñon. My grandmother was called Mémé. She loved me. I knew she did. She was the only one. I remember one day, I was three or four, playing by the train track, alone. Apparently I disturbed a bee, and was stung on my bare foot. I remember running into the house, crying, and my Mémé scooped me up into her arms and sat in her rocking chair, and rocked with me, holding me close, and comforting me. I felt loved. She died a short time later. They didn’t let me go to her funeral. I never got to say goodbye, and I never felt loved again. Continue reading →