Attending family events has always been disorienting to me. From where did the expectation of familiar ease come, anyway? When in the past I felt like I didn’t fit in as an awkward, detached child, now that my generation are the old ones, the sense of other-ness is slightly altered.

Yet none of it is real — neither my childhood sense of being nor my present opinion of it — and I don’t know what’s worse, the false sense of being an outsider or my harsh focus on how old our children are. I should probably work that out.

Six thousand miles is a long way to travel, especially for a four hour payoff. But, the time and cost is worth it, if only for a first-person understanding that living down the street doesn’t guarantee a more frequent gathering.

So what does it mean that I am so distracted by trivial things and cannot focus on my loved ones enough for me to feel connected? Is the event itself superficial? Or is it only guilt for my loose associations.

Among the family I feel barely different with age. But now, instead of juvenile fidgeting, standing alone amongst the crowd only makes me wonder whether I misjudge the significance of my own youthful thoughts. At least today I’m more comfortable skipping the pleasantries and talking about new openness.