Family, But Not Quite

There was a storm raging war right outside. Against what, it’s not exactly clear. Had the wispy clouds of white finally had enough of being ousted and pushed aside by the rich fluffiness of marshmallow cream? Had the sky decided to eliminate the dirt and stain littering the crystal blue it was supposed to reflect?

Maybe it was all of that and none of it. It was preposterous in the first place to assume that a simple combination and mix of chemicals and earthly elements would have a mind of their own to wage something as humane as war.

Oh, would that not be a sight? Torrents of rain as the heavens’ spears, and clouds as the battalions that charge fearlessly into battle? The storm that was raging war outside would indeed be a story worth telling– a few words appended as ink on paper or letters on a screen would be enough to make something out of it.

But that wasn’t the main focus here, not really. For war was something erratic, charged, and draws you in so that you could never stop to blink. There would always be something happening in war– a sword drawn, a gun fired, a body stepped on, a cry breaking through the air.

Behind the windows of a two-story house in the suburbs– not quite in the city but not quite in the country either– lay something you could say was worse than war but not quite. 

Everything there could be summed up by those two words, actually: not quite.

It was a house you would think was big, but not quite when compared to its neighbors that would take up too many lots they leave to rot. The windows were almost floor-to-ceiling, but not quite when skyscrapers in the city center were made entirely of glass. The place was old but not quite as the garden was upkept and the scarce patches of grass in the backyard trimmed.

Those two words even fit the people in it now, sheltered behind the rattling windows held firm by bars and locks that had no rust and warmed by the candles lit all around the house with generators a thing of the past. Even with the flickering of light and shadow on the planes of their faces, you could see the stark similarities and resemblances of four to the graying two. Of two elders to two younger. Of six humans to six humans.

The clinking of lackluster silverware against chipped porcelain filled the space built for these people who shared faces, but not quite. Sometimes the sound stopped when someone set their knife, fork, and spoon down to take a sip, some– not all– eyes looking at similar ones from across or beside over the clear rim. It also stopped when the rare coughs come, a gruff or soft ‘excuse me’ temporarily filling in for it.

How do you say that this was something worse than the storm that was raging war outside?

Well…

A dinner by people known as a family, but not quite, was something to be feared, was it not?

—

“It’s been too long.”

That was a phrase, a collection of words strung together and infused with varying tones depending on the recipient and speaker, that should’ve been recorded and simply played over with how many times it’s been said in a span of a few hours.

It was fascinating, really, how you could construe a multitude of meanings from four words. Was it something said to imply that you missed them from being apart for too long? Or perhaps it was simply a formality that didn’t have any sentimentality to it, something people say to fool all parties of their significance to each other?

The words floated in the air from the six people with similar features to the woman of the hour who they all came for, but not for each other. The warm smiles given and exchanged were for her and the person she bonded to, not for the others with whom they shared cradles and childhoods.

They brushed against each other throughout the reception. It’s unavoidable not to. You couldn’t count the number of times they did, for no one was counting, anyway. Neither the people around them nor the six themselves had any desire to do anything of the sort. The wily young one would be dancing on the open floor, shoulders similar but not quite brushing against the burnout older one who rushed to the open bar.

There were attempts, of course. The two graying ones and the meddlesome older one would try to corner the others, maybe even chain them down to one of the tables and force a meal in their mouths.

You could guess that they never learned the harsh lesson in life: that things forced were things never to be appreciated.

At this point in time, on the night of their favorite cousin’s wedding, the storm hadn’t declared war just yet. Even the heavens acknowledged the untouchable quality of a bride’s wedding. So there were no rattling windows, no torrent of rain spears on clean glass panes decorated by golden thorns woven by man nurtured by nature. The wind hadn’t heard the trumpet of battle just yet, a pleasant breeze greeting those that went out of the bright venue for a smoke or two.

No… that war wouldn’t come until the champagne bottles were empty, when the chocolate fountain could spurt out no more, string instruments all but packed up into the back of hailed cabs, and tables clear of wedding favors and scripted numbers.

If you realized that the storm would only come just as the clanking of cans against pavement could no longer be heard, and just as the six people with similar features– a family but not quite– would split apart once more, it will have been too late.

By then, they’d be cramped into the car of the old but not quite loyal caretaker of the house, the thing creaking under a weight it hadn’t carried in decades. It will have been too late when you realize that it took a storm that canceled booked flights, discouraged hailing vehicles from coming near, and plunged them into candle-lit darkness and warmth to let this family dinner happen.

Was this the purpose of the war? Who knows.

—

Manicured colorless nails tapped rhythmically against the table. Designer shoes tapped impatiently on the floor. Funkily-colored long nails– enough to rival claws in the wild– tapped on the table, with the other stuck to a small screen with contents flying too fast to discern anything. Worn out loafers with the shine amateurly applied to lay beside black-socked feet with holes here and there.

Was it not scary how such things from seemingly different ends of the earth, life, and society were gathered in such a small space? The clinking of lackluster silverware on chipped porcelain had been long replaced by impatient tapping, the incessantly loud ticks from designer watches, and the occasional ping from the neon-encased phone.

Don’t be mistaken, though. There were attempts to dispel this atmosphere. But attempts were nothing more than half-hearted actions undertaken by people who were not motivated or passionate enough to make their wants a reality.

It was almost adorable; this number of attempts of the two graying ones sitting across from each other in casting the net time and time again with not one of their children biting. Even the meddlesome older sister had given up, her awkward smile and false cheer meeting their expiration date in the middle of the dessert.

Thankfully the food was fresh and far from being spoiled. Though you couldn’t say the same for the mood of the small space when the storm refused to abate and pull back its troops, a bleak future of spending the night looming over them.

Expiration dates were fascinating things, no? From the moment of conception and creation, people already knew the date when something’s beauty would fade– when the taste turns sour and dangerous to eat, when the fresh smell turns faint until there’s no longer any difference with water and air.

Should it be sad to do the same for the people themselves? Inhumane or unfeeling, even?

Because every tick of the designer watch on the arrogant eldest brother’s wrist was something every familiar ear but not quite strained to hear– to count. It seemed that even with bonds of blood that the hearts pump through bodies that were similar but not quite, there was a timer ticking down until the potency of red expires.

What exactly do you think was happening in this small space, around this decades-old table fit for precisely the number of people the house once sheltered?

The tapping on the table and floor stopped as words from the graying ones became lost to the shrill ringtone of a pop song the older ones hated, the middle overworked office worker child was indifferent to, and the easygoing younger daughter loved.

“The roads are clear again? Alright, come pick me up then.”

Well…

It seems you’ll never know, will you?

The history carved into this house’s rotting corners and crevices, the carved letters on the dining table, and the memories hidden in a box up in the rat-infested attic were things not needed to be scrutinized by people who did not share the faces of these six.

There were expiration dates for everything, it seems.

An ending for the war that concluded with little to no fanfare, torrents of rain spears turning into droplets of tears over those who fell in battle. For the bride’s wedding march that died down once vows were sealed with a kiss. For the rickety car that was old but not quite enough to be an antique as it sputtered across the roads that once hailed it king. For the loyal housekeeper who lived alone in the house that six once called home, religiously trimming the grass and garden outside and dusting what’s inside.

Even for people who shared almost everything but not quite. Even then, there were expiration dates that turned families into nothing more than strangers who ate at the same table.