My family is weird.

Families are weird, at least mine is—or used to be, depending on how you see it. You see, a couple falls in love—or not, depending on how you see it—and they together, make the decision to build a family. Out comes a child, two, three. Maybe four, or more. They learn how to babble, cease crying in the middle of the night, learn how to roll on their tummies, lose their drooling aprons, and soon they go to kindergarten. Mingle with more children, create a personality of their own, favor a nickname and laugh a certain way. Elementary school comes up soon enough, with boys giving you the cooties, girls wanting to be just like their mother. They are wrapped in drama of their creation, and every emotion they feel is ephemeral, bound to extinguish, but it doesn't feel like it. The end of the world is announced when a dress doesn't fit, the bejeweled dress on an apparel store wasn't her favorite color, or the boy who mocked the girl turns out to have developed past the cooties. Middle school is a cloud of awakening, regions go unexplored, feelings bud, and they copulate to create a teenage crisis, where your crush couldn't give a damn about you, and so the world is almost over. But if you're lucky, you also befriend someone who helps you through it before flipping you off like those firecracker friendships that don't last long but fill you for a bit.

High school, the mere testimony of human stubbornness, creates the prime environment for all those discoveries, garnered for fifteen years, to come up, bursting at the seams, and there you are, a horny, reckless, stupid sixteen year old failing a test because you were hitting your vape on the back of the mall, your crush helps you in your physics homework, but you're scared he'll think you're dumb now. Your parents start to argue more and more in the kitchen, and it all somehow has to do with you. The urge to hump something sometimes turns into a random hookup on one of those parties you're better off not going, and sometimes, you're encountered by death, like I was, like millions are. And so, that bubble of self-importance, where nothing could touch you and every single little feeling you felt was the most important discovery of the world turns to... well, nothing. And you realize you'll die some day, fizzle like a worn wood patch, dried like grass under the sun, left to wither. And your brain cannot process death because, duh, you've never experienced it. So you start flipping your parents off, you fall in love with a promiscuous girl or a self-absorbed boy, and you become high school sweethearts. Sometimes, teenage pregnancy happens, sometimes you wait a bit to get married, and the cycle begins all over again. But that isn't the part I focus on.

I have more aunts and uncles than I need, probably. I met one out of four grandparents, so I cannot judge their persona, but I have ideas. There's Anthony, the father of the decade—by mother's stories—who was every bit hardworking as she was. That's where she got it from, I'd guess. Tall, smart, inch by inch an imposing man who did what he needed to make sure his eight children had an education, something to provide for themselves, to be proud of. There's Romelia, the only one I did meet, who was a kindred spirit, kind hearted, a woman through and through, though after Anthony's death, she was never the same. I guess that does it for you, losing someone after loving them for more than four decades. Azul, my other grandmother, sounds like the fancy one, jewels from head to toe, a stern character, a stubborn soul, knowing what she needed and what she didn't, bossing everyone around. A writer, I secretly believe. Out of all of them, her characteristics fit me the most. The way my pride somehow becomes the most important thing for me, the way my nose bridges, the way I adore words and they adorn me in return, the way my thighs are shaped, and her forehead. Or so they say, anyway. And lastly, Felipe, my father's doppleganger. Moustached, imposing, impossibly serious, a kill-you-in-one-glance look in every one of the photos I have all over my house.

Out of them, came at least sixteen children. I want to say I am not partial to my mother's side, but I'd be lying. I didn't meet all of her brothers, but the once I did, they shaped a bit how I thought, what I expected, what I hope to become, and what I plan to avoid, all in one. They were all taller than six feet, their skin tones a soft mixture in all shades because of my grandmother's taste, and they are all... goofy. I met one when I was really young, and lost him soon thereafter. But he relished in me, and I in him. I don't need other people to tell me how much he meant to me. For him to be my first memory I recall is enough. I never did get to say goodbye, but he's been the muse of thousands of poems; the person I think of when I see green walls. His name was Frederick, and his younger brother, Michael, was the one I was the closest to. He lived next to us for as long as I remembered, and of course, he was stubborn as a mule, had a goofy grin and a deep rumble of a voice that made you feel safe, even if you really weren't. His other brother, Stephan, was the quiet one. Stoic, petrified, but he had that goofy smile too, two children of his own that missed him when he departed earth last summer. There's my mother's sister, thin and delicately shaped, reckless when it comes to love, a ready ear when it comes to gossip, a strange soul I haven't seen in a while but I know will leave a tiny mark in my wood when she leaves. And my favorite uncle, Xavier, who is just a whole persona by himself. Tall, taller than all of them, a famous Mexican singer look-alike, who every time I saw him would rush to meet me and thrust his arms forward, my elbows fitting right into his palm as he'd heave me up, call me his girl. The youngest, my mother, was a historical figure of her own, so much so I have written songs and poems and books, but never manage to get her description to fit, to be worthy of respect because of resemblance. She was she, and that's all. Every other word falls short, and every other description doesn't matter, could never do her justice.

My father's side also has a little nook in my heart. He is, too, the youngest, and his family seems to have a secret gene that makes them all turn old and wrinkled before they fade, so I tell myself I shouldn't worry too much about losing them yet. There's Emilia, the fancy big sister, who married her high school love and proceeded to become rich, somehow, wearing fancy jewels and a permanent frown when someone did something she didn't like. Then there's the duo of iconic sisters, the ones who wrap me up and send me home, the ones that listened to me when I was breaking and filled the silence with laughter, making me feel like I wasn't dying. And technically, I wasn't the one dying. Rose, with the wild red hair and an energy to wake up at 5 am every morning, who is always vibrating with anxiety, something we share, stupidly paranoid, another thing we share. Henriette, who is a vibrant soul on her own, always coming up with made up drama that makes me chuckle, green eyes and an amazing sense of fashion, if I say so myself. She makes awful jokes but I always laugh anyway. Then there's August, my uncle, who looks a bit like my father, except he's on the thinner, quieter side. He is a devoted soul, and chose God above a normal life, so I guess I always draw a bit of strength from him. Prepared, smart, profesional, well-kept. And then there's not really an aunt, but a cousin I see as an aunt, who has helped me ever since mother left, with that joyful expression and those tired eyes because life simply won't give her a break. She is Rose's daughter, and they look so much alike I am somewhat jealous of their uncanny resemblance.

Notice how I only mentioned about five on each side, despite having said that there were sixteen children from both families. The other ones didn't make it, or I wasn't born soon enough to meet them. But the tales of them are every bit heartbreaking, incredibly perplexing, and make me yearn to having met them. I know people say you can't love someone you haven't met, but I think that's a lie. I love those people I never met, practically strangers, because they made my mother's voice take a certain tone, her eyes to brighten up a certain way. And that love, that 'stranger love', is what every parent faces when they meet their child for the first time. You don't know the way that child will turn out to be, their personality, those quirks and moods they pull, but you love what they represent, an extension of yourself. You love who they will be. And I love those people I never met because they are part of who I will be.

Despite those thorough descriptions, growing up I didn't have much contact with them at all. Everyone has their ups and downs, and so obviously my mother and they argued. She claims she was right, and they claim they were. I am no judge, so I just sit in the middle, love them both, picture them both so I can recall the exact tone of their laughter or the exact enunciation of certain words they love so when I'm old, I can still recall who they were. Maybe mother wasted too much time holding grudges, or maybe she was cautious not to be hurt twice by the same knife, but its time I made amends. I press father to call his sisters, so I can see them every time I'm home, simply because they feel like home. They are where my genes come from, they are a tiny piece I can use to understand myself better. These descriptions, cartoonish, picky and unique, are what I stole from those few occasions I was allowed to see them, to drink them in.

These descriptions always stick longer than what they did or didn't do. They are what I remember mother by, and so, if they broke my mother's trust or took advantage of my father's ingenuity, that is not my burden to carry. Father, to this day, tries to poison that love of mine, turn it into wariness. Maybe I should be wary, but I want to learn so by myself. Because I refuse to believe my mother's kindness was just hers and not a family trait. I see her in my uncle's eyes, I see her in every single one of her siblings, and the same goes for father.

I wonder, does my brother see a resemblance of himself when he looks at me? That little gremlin who is so quiet but so sarcastic he is uncharacteristically funny, unbelievably mature, not wasting time with senseless drama and hear-say gossip. That little human I wanted as a companion, that I hope will always stick next to my side like I have vowed to do with him. He is tall too, brown eyes, raven hair and the most amazing eyelashes I have ever seen. He is what mother loved before she met, and he is my best friend, even if he might refuse to see it because he's 'so over being cheesy'. Doesn't matter, I'll annoy him anyway.

What I mean is, family isn't blood, isn't even genes, though they have a big factor. Family is that intangible connection you have with people just because of who they are, the way you relate to them. That connection is deeper and rooted further than childish squirms and heated 'fuck-yous' no one means. Those people I mentioned mean everything to me, though I was taught not to think that way. My heart breaks when theirs do. My throat clenches when I see a pout in their features, something gone wrong in their adult world. They are little moments I define as happiness because they were breathing next to me, exchanging jokes and teasing their siblings. They are a little crevice in my brain to accumulate all these descriptions, a little hole in my heart to store the tears I'll weep when they aren't here anymore.

But for now they are, and God, what a blessing, what a tiny beautiful thing family can be.