My aunt on my father's side always hosted the family gatherings in her own home. Aunt Cathy was the mama bird of our family. Bringing shelter to her fledgling birds.

In contrast, my mother's mother. A recluse. Gram was fixed on her bedroom throne. Sometimes showing a rare sign of generosity. Dropping jolly ranchers into outstretched hands. Her bones would screech at us until we let their master be.

My cousin Alex, who smoked through his best friend's suicide. Barely passing through school. Barely passing through each week. Barely passing through life. The way he'd shake his head at family drama and slip away into his own quiet space.

My roots really begin with my mother. The person who graduated with high honors in the peak of spring. The person who would sing "I will" as a lullaby to make us fall asleep. The person who hid her tears from her children when she couldn't pay the rent for the third month in a row. The person who held my hand and sat next to me for hours when I apologized for being born.

I've apologized a lot. Apologized when forgiveness isn't needed. The familiar sidewalk asks me why I say sorry where a willow tree cuts a road into two. Where daffodils, lilies, and chrysanthemums guard the lake from unwanted passengers. Where the wind whispers sweet nothings into the hearts of those listening. It's the place where questions are answered and new questions are formed. A place without forgiveness. A place without guilt. A place with no memory of sneaking home late at night or that one plate of spaghetti being dropped on the dirty shag carpet.