My last dream before I woke this morning involved my paternal grandfather. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Papa in my dreams. So it was nice to hang out with him, even if just in my subconscious.

Weekend before last marked 10 years since his passing. In some ways, it doesn’t seem nearly that long. In others, it seems much longer. I don’t have a defining memory of the last time I saw him alive. Instead my memories associated with his leaving this world are those of the evening I found out… staring out the window of my dorm room as the sun set… my boyfriend at the time coming in, starting to tease me about the unpacked state of my room despite my approaching departure for the summer… interrupting the boyfriend to tell him the news before he embarrassed himself… sitting on my roommate’s already vacated bed, cutting pictures out of magazines… thankful that I’d taken my last exam that morning.

In the months leading up to my grandfather’s death, I was fearful. Not just about his loss to me, but to our whole family. I was so sure that my grandmother would die soon after, having been married to him for more than 50 years, and growing up with him prior to their marriage. And what would my dad and his siblings do without their parents? And my brothers, cousins, and I without our grandparents? Thankfully, I underestimated my grandmother’s strength, and I and everyone else got another five years with her. But the loss of Papa meant more than the loss of a smiling man who squeezed my cheeks too hard and gave me sloppy kisses, who liked Tab and bargains, who allowed me a connection with my Persian heritage. It also meant the loss of a little of our family glue.