Come Sit Down, While I wonder the difference of coming and going

By my count, when I recount this memory and write so with so much joy, my cousin will be coming home to us, to his household family of sisters, a frazzled mother of eight and Mejicano rancher of a father, coming home to the traditional Christmas mass. Coming home to us after a singular semester of A&M. I doubt I've thought of him more than I have these last few months. I don't know why. It's hardly begun and I will love when he makes friends in college, holds down a job. I hope he achieves all his dreams of money and a fancy hospital to administrate with. God help him, my prayers-- if I prayed-- be with him. I just hope he grows out of using an Asian to complete his homework.

Of course we write to each other still, we are kids who spent our teenage years perusing social media pages or fan articles from our cell phones. Who spoke of the money on our credit cards. Haggled hours and the search bar on a Netflix account over pizza and Coke. Sometimes Takis. Guess who had which on theirs. Who used anime uploads from an avatar creator for their home screen?

I imagine we'll do plenty together. On the days my parents permit the drive up to the house. One I used to see on a weekly basis. Though it does get easier to wait when I have friends on my contacts list. I suppose coming back is coming to what and where you began from. Each and every Christmas we go back to being kids excited to tear open presents and waiting for the Mass we don't wholly understand to be over. Though we don't look it so explicitly anymore. And the song is very sweet of fishes and a beautiful maiden with a silver brush and dry hands from using a soap bar. "Picadas."

But in a few years, wherever he'll set up shop: "Hospital Manager/Administration," he'll be going. Going from his work, perhaps blustery and snowy or not much different to his native Texas, right back to this ambiguous ambient sunny winter of biting air and radiant gold from nine to five. Hah! Perfect light for the work shift. Before they let off all the paralegals and retailers to be home with their families to indulge their bellies a Christmas dinner and indulge the whims of little siblings or nephews.

In a few years, family members, perhaps even myself sitting in my parents' living room will tell coworkers who go drink the New Year away over saucy wings: I'm going home for Christmas. Back to where they began after being so far away.

My sister would say the same too. She has a whole other life downtown in a legal firm. Nice coworkers, I mean, not everyone would be worth the effort of pumpkin cheesecake squares homemade and frozen for a week and wrapped in foil for the Halloween party. At the end of her shift on Friday she'll be going home for Christmas.

She doesn't know though, that she may come home in time to catch the smell of her Christmas present. She used to bake for me, youngest of the family and admittedly still somewhat vague, I repay that favor in kind with chewy sugar cookies. Perfectly Christmas and perfectly sweet able to made and tailored to her taste as she desires.

My brother too, who works at WalMart and does so well, works his tall, still giant and larger than is logical figure to the bone. He does heavy labor, he comes home and lifts everyday, so I suppose it makes sense that he spends the holiday in his own space, in clothes that let him breathe. Absent of the pressure of pressed, pristine pictures or insistence from our parents who may not get the concept so well of a social battery.

I don't know which I envy nor which I desire.

Going home or coming home.

I suppose when it comes to coming implies a person was lost in the first place or for what reason someone could be unwelcome.

I don't understand the concept. Then again I'm always here. I'm always asleep or in the kitchen, or on my phone with the TV. I'm not exactly the most active, I don't exactly have a motive to leave or to come. Since I have no job and I come home anyway from everyday at school. Maybe one day I'll be a bit annoying with my constant buzzing and eeking squeals about the holiday season and gold lights and shiny wrapped gifts.

But I also have nephews. From the time I was ten or eight, I was an Aunt to beautiful gurgling little bundles of life. Skin red and a bit of a wrinkly ham with alien faces. I'd still cuddle it and coo at how unbearably, painfully adorable it is. If the face of our overlords were plump and round, with no teeth and pupils almost too big for almond eyes I would kneel.

I may be going on a tangent.

In ten years, those kids will be grown. So many are and they are coming quite finely to themselves. Still as happy and active, this way and that across the house. Those who know me may tangle themselves to my legs.

In ten years I hope they remember me. I love my Mom, I love my Dad, and my siblings. Just like my parents, I'm coming for Christmas at my siblings' place. I'd have to apologize, I'm sure my friends have nice and warm celebrations planned, but I'm going home for Christmas.

I know at least one, maybe two or three, will hear, "Tu tia viene para las vacaciones."

Your Aunt is coming this Christmas break.

And she brings gifts.