Which one of you will be missing next time?

They are loud.

They move around me in constant motion, Bengali mixed with English mixed with Hindi on the occasion even. They sit back giving opinions, loud in-your-face opinions. The men in the family room watching TV at such loud volumes you wonder if they aren't deaf. The women in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, children running around yelling and screaming from freedom of not being their parents primary focus. There is a lot of clucking and admonishing and gentle loving words. There is a lot of teasing and gossiping and frowning too. There is so much emotion and commotion as bursts of laughter rent the air.

I look around at those faces and wonder, 'which one of you will be missing next time?' It's a morbid thought. I realize this immediately but I can not help it either.

Near me my aunt stands her hip to one side, her foot thrust out. She jokes, reaching out to snag a piece of sweet. She sees me watching and laughs at herself. Sweets are her weakness. My thought is that it is why she's so sweet herself. My mothers younger sister stands close by, talking with her daughter. Age has set into her face now permanently. This is a bit unnerving to me for I had never considered her old. Not even older, but now I must. It is there, like a story written on a piece of white paper. It has taken shape and root in the lines of her face and I'm a bit surprised that I hadn't noticed all this time. My eyes travel from the contours of my aunts face, which was at one time as young looking as my own face, to my nieces who is fluttering about fussing with her dupatta, twirling it above her head as she does a little ballet step. Her face is smooth with no stamp of the impending years ahead yet making it's mark upon her delicate skin. Next I look at my cousin who leans against the counter talking to her mother, one hand clutches a cup of iced water as the other reaches out tentatively to touch the other woman’s hair. It's a wig and she pats it down as if trying to squish some of the puffiness out. The love radiating from them is tangible. They knew, they had a rough go of it, there had been times when they hadn't been sure that it would ever be this way again. I look away abruptly feeling as if I've just intruded on a very personal moment. I probably have.

I wander through the kitchen into the family room again. My father and several other male species of the family sit about watching the Indian channel. Some half dressed hoochie is gyrating across the screen while her counterpart male lead is fully clothed but gyrating nonetheless. My mother shouts from the kitchen, "Sound Koman!" Turn down the sound! I can't blame her for being irate, the noise is unbelievable. My father scowls but hits the button. Two bars disappear on the television. I shake my head.

I know in the basement my brother lounges with the other cousins, debating, joking, arguing, whatever. In the formal living room my aunt (again) and my mothers friend sit and is gossiping, talking in hushed tones. The minute I walk in, their heads snap up and their faces look like they've been caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar. I chuckle to myself, waving my hand and making an excuse to leave them be.

My nephew is wandering about the house, toddling in and out of trouble sort of under the radar. My husband spots him and I watch as he swoops him up, the momentum so that his strong arms carry the little squealing bundle up, up, up above his head. The almost 3 year old boy grasps my husbands head, curling his little body around and clasping him close so he isn't dropped all the while emitting laughter. My husband chuckles even as his air supply is cut off abruptly. He doesn't mind as he blows a raspberry onto my nephews stomach who yelps in laughter, lets go and falls into my husbands waiting arms, secure. I watch this interaction with my heart aching.

I blink back tears of sadness.

Moving on, I find myself back in the kitchen. There are multitudes of bodies all swarming around looking useful but doing nothing. One of the aunties works on quietly, saying not much because most of the conversation is in Bengali, she is Gujrati. But this doesn't matter to her, she is happy to be there with the family. We are happy she's there because she is apart of our family.

My eyes last lands on my mother. She stands against the kitchen island talking with her sister-in-law. Someone else joins them, someone leaves, my mother stands there and when she turns away, I see it. It's on her face. Her spirit is so tired. She probably is yearning for peace and quiet but fears it. I see that on her face often too. The prospect of being alone is not one she cherishes, but then again, no one does truly, right? She grabs a sponge and wipes down a part of the counter. She is doing so that her hands are occupied, the counter is spotless. The lines of age and worry are deeply grooved into her lovingly familiar faces. My heart stutters as I observe how frail she's become. Her wrists can be spanned by my thumb and index finger (maybe even my pinky). If I picked her up...how much would she weight? 95? 100? Though I always envied her slight figure, I do not envy this scarecrow that is before me.

Her shoulders are sagged, her eyes a bit vacant, pain clearly evident if one is willing to look for the signs. Pain has taken up permanent residence in my mother. She will release it later, in an angry word or a rash of tears, most often in a long drawn out sigh, but not now and unfortunately she never releases it completely. There is so much left in her. For that moment she is holding it in. But her heart aches. I've been her daughter for 34 years, I know when she's in pain, I see it as clear as if it's a sign out on the interstate. I feel helpless at the face of my helplessness. I feel sorrow in the face of her sorrow. I feel a second of anger towards the Almighty for having placed her in a life that brought her so little joy.

She looks up, catching my eye. Her little hand halts, chin raised, eyes questioning as if to ask 'what?' I shake my head and give her a bright smile. 'The food is fantastic...' I wrap my arms around her, kissing her on the forehead, again shocked at how frail she seems in my arms. She doesn't notice my eyes misting over, the way I have to gulp back tears or how I breath deeply her beloved familiar scent. I try desperately not to think of life without the woman I hold in my arms. If I do, I'll die. I know the pain will kill me. So I ignore it. Instead I look about her and see the ghosts of the people who are gone. Those who were so vital and important, who made just these sort of gatherings almost impossible to have without their presence.

I look around and think to myself: which one of you will be missing next time?

I live in a mixture of love and dread.

I turn around and my cousins crowd me, pulling me aside, pulling my mind away...this is how life is...right?