Praise the unexpected.
Family reunions are insanely hard;
There are too many people (for my taste) that shout to each other, demand several beers in a single go, complain whenever the food gets cold, hot or spicy...
They love gathering in the cramped kitchen that's stuffy from the steaming pots. I can't understand why: there's a breeze blowing outside.
The smokers hardly try to keep their horrid fumes away from my young lungs.
The little kids run around thrashing, squealing and draining their parents’ energy.
The dogs whimper constantly because of the lack of attention. We pretend this isn't the cause of headaches.
Sometimes, the conversation will take bizarre turns only to retrace its steps to the same topics.
I run around frantically keeping the bowls of chips overflowing, fighting mosquitoes and smearing nicely toasted bread with the latest biddings.
My only other option is to sit sandwiched between to big men who very rarely, speak my language.
The claustrophobia punches me in the gut. A hatred best friend.
I take solace in the occasional times the girls thank my worrying and the adults ask how I'm keeping up or if I'm eating enough.
I'm grateful for my eldest cousin's silence. He seems to understand.
Well, guess it's true what they say; old habits die hard.
Sweat rolls down my face, neck, back... whilst I'm scrubbing the dishes, viciously.
Because complicated me, wishes her existence out of here every time I glance out and glimpse the moon in its gorgeous, yellowish glow.
But then, the scene changes.
My grandma calls me in (my pink, rubber gloves still wet) and she makes a toast to me, for overcoming a difficult sickness. Everyone else follows, piping happy things that make my face flush scarlet.
I even get a flute of champagne.
Ok, that was beautiful. Maybe not all reunions are total drolls.
I could get used to this.