My grandparents home is a place of mixed emotions on evenings when the cousins convene. There’s an air of trepidation prior to communication. Of topics taboo and not to be mentioned: the family ring, the sisterly feuds, a summer wedding, a lost boy. But, we talk. Mainly about small things. Nostalgia. The twinkling of lights on now sold Christmas train sets, the frosting of a cake and the smearing of my grandmother’s lipstick on my once adolescent face, endless card games that went well beyond bedtimes, misplaced Easter eggs and their ever lingering sulfuric odor. Conversation lingers and lags until we’re at the Chinese restaurant we routinely visit on these biannual gatherings. Sesame chicken for one, mango grouper for three, wok and chop chicken for another. We eat, chew and swallow, argue about the safety of my Grandfather’s slightly pink chicken wing, break fortune cookies, and pack up leftovers. We leave and find ourselves back in the perfectly coordinated living room where our evening began. Religion is brought up followed by feminism, Freud, and stereotyping. One cousin the devil’s advocate, another asleep on the couch. The last one, me, left trying to put together puzzle pieces in their brain and thinking back about the evening. My grandfather’s comment for me to stand by during my cousin’s dinner prayer. My grandmother’s sadness I caught while she was scooping rice. My cousin’s realization about his biological father. His sister’s furtive glances in the mirror. My own snarky comment to my cousin when he accuses me of using a what if analogy in a mock debate: “Michael”, I say, “Religion is the biggest what if argument.” It’s funny. How families work and function. How boundaries are set up and even though we skirt the lines we never cross them. It reminds me of a game we used to play. Don’t touch the lava. Jumping around the living room trying to avoid an invisible and formidable foe. Except sometimes, we trip. And, a pair of perfectly hemmed pastel curtains are torn down.
