As I entered into adulthood, I became acutely aware of how much my aunts and uncles love me. To be honest, I couldn’t understand why; I didn’t have do to anything. It didn’t make sense to me - I was just the daughter of their siblings.
Now my siblings have kids and I understand. These small people are a part of me, even though they didn’t come from me. And I gush over them as if they were my own. This week I told everyone who would listen about how Elijah tried to rally the car on the way to church in honor of his own birthday and how Benjamin has taken to introducing himself as “the nicest boy ever”. Previous weeks told tales of Anna, Priscilla and Lydia or Nathaniel, Issac and Mary. “Those kids are sound amazing,” is the response I usually get at the end of my tales and I nod in agreement.
I woke up this past Saturday to the smell of Swedish pancakes and coffee and I joined my family at the kitchen table for breakfast and chit-chat. Once everyone had enough to eat and the kitchen was prepped for cleaning, my mother began acting very nervous. “We need to have a family meeting,” she said as she pulled additional seating into the family room. “I’ll go find Dad but go ahead and have a seat.” My sister and I tried to coax it out of her but she refused to say anything except that my brother already knew. Simultaneously our heads turned to him. “What is it about? The will?” we pried, but he also kept tight-lipped. “It will make you sad . . . and a little mad,” he offered. My dad emerged and as a family we sat and waited.
The story unfolded. My cousin’s life took a dramatic and unexpected sad turn. Troy was right, we were sad and mad. Sometimes more mad than sad. The kids who were playing in the basement opened the door. “Get downstairs!” my sister and I yelled in unision. The door quickly shut. “To be fair,” my mom pointed out, “we never told them they had to stay in the basement.” My dad continued and the door knob shook again. “If you open that door, you will be in trouble!” my brother-in-law warned. “Unless it is Issac, because he is too little - I call!” my sister-in-law protested, protective of our youngest nephew.
The story ended. We sat in silence. My love for my cousin grew as did my respect, admiration and empathy. The protection exhibited by my mother and sister-in-law was the same kind of protection I wanted to pour on my cousin. The night before I drove past where my dad’s sister’s family used to live - about twenty minutes from where I grew up. “I bet if my dad’s brother’s family lived here instead, we would be a lot closer,” I thought to myself, oblivious to the news I would receive the next day about her family. Less than twelve hours later the distance between a Las Vegas and Chicago childhood melted away. The visit I promised last summer mentally moved to the top of my priority list.
Later that day my sister, sister-in-law and I went shopping. Looking to kill twenty minutes, we pulled into the Dominick’s parking lot to grab a forgotten dinner agreement. My sister waited as a spot near the front became available. As she started to pull into the spot, a woman in a Lexus SUV began to honk as if the spot was hers. “I was here first,” my sister asserted to us in the car as she parked and we got out. The woman pulled up and rolled down her window, “That’s very nice. Have a great day,” she said icily. “I was waiting first,” my sister said as we walked in the store. The woman argued back, “No you were not there first . . .” and I felt my pulse race and my cheeks flush. Instinctively I felt my finger point and my direction shift as I walked towards the Lexus, “Yes she was there first! And you got a better spot of the deal, so what is the problem!?” I decided not to wait for her response, as I could feel a string of curse words begin to form on my lips.
The instinct to protect our loved ones is natural. For me, it washes over my insides like a wave; making me simlutaneously nauseous and heated. I don’t always know how to express how I feel, but I do try to show it.