Cousins twice removed

This weekend we drove to Toronto to visit my aunt. I call her my aunt, but really she's not. She's my mother's cousin, twice removed, yet deserving of a much greater title. So many of my childhood memories were created in her home. Holidays. Birthdays. Parties.

Her house was always bustling, children running, phones ringing, people knocking at the door. Another unexpected guest joins the party, always welcome. A real menagerie of family, friends, neighbours and pets. Laughter. Warmth. Family.

I know she wouldn't have had it any other way.

The cousins would run down to the basement, immersed into a world of creativity: playing games, chasing cats, building forts, making movies. Above us the adults talked, reminiscing about their own childhoods in a place far away, comparing notes on who was doing what. The men in the other room, eyes transfixed on the 'game', oblivious to the clamour around them. Now the children have all grown up and moved away, having children of their own. My aunt and my uncle (who's not) followed them to Toronto, to be closer to their grandchildren. Their home is physically further from ours, but it's just as close.

We arrived at dinner time, greeted warmly with open arms. We weren't alone for long - more children arrived. The next generation of cousins. How many times removed, I'm not even sure. The hum of conversation filled the room, reminiscing about our childhoods, and comparing how our children had grown since the last time we met. Food was passed from one end of the table to another.

Joel greeted his cousin with a hug. So many months had passed since they'd seen each other, but that didn't seem to matter. They ran to the basement holding hands, just as I did so many years ago, and immersed themselves into a world of imagination and creativity. They chased the cat. They created art. They had quiet and secret conversations, far from the listening ears of grownups. Perhaps their bond was inherited.

I watched as their childhood memories unfolded, much like the ones I made. The same laughter, warmth, and family. But in a different house, in a different city. My family, so distantly related, yet with a connection that's meant to be passed on.