As the holidays approach, I find myself thinking back to the years when my whole family was still in the same place, when the house was full of noise and I felt like it would never fade.
When I was about eight or nine, I had a Christmas that I will never forget. It’s probably the best Christmas I’ll ever have. It was at my grandmother’s house, we were all there in the same place: my parents, my brother, my grandparents, my two aunts, my uncle, and my cousins. I remember that Christmas morning, when the sun wasn’t even out yet, but we were all opening our presents and having the time of our lives. I don’t remember what I got, and I don’t even remember what anyone else got. What I do remember was the absolute mess of wrapping paper scattered across the living room floor and my grandmother cooking while we all enjoyed our presents.
She would also host a Thanksgiving breakfast every year, where she would invite the whole neighborhood and our family to a feast at her house, where we would all talk about how grateful we were for being able to be together. I also distinctly remember during my senior year, when we all made handmade gifts for each other in a Secret Santa Christmas Party. I remember everything, from Easter, birthdays, summer trips to Cabo Rojo—every moment felt like it would last forever. But those moments quickly turned into memories. After my godmother and her family moved to Maryland and my parents moved to Michigan, something changed. Those summers, those crowded mornings, those cousin meetups, they’ve become frozen in time.
Now, when I see my aunt, my godmother, and my mom laughing together during visits, it hurts a little. Because I know how rare it is. They live in three different places, experiencing three different lives. The closeness we all shared, now only exists in group chats that go quiet for months.
When I was in tenth grade, my godmother gave me a drawing table for Three Kings Day because I wanted to be an architect. I remember feeling like she knew me better than most people. I barely see my godmother now, the same woman who once knew me so well has become someone I see once a year, if I’m lucky. But when she and my cousins come to visit, something inside me feels whole again, even if it’s only for a moment. Until, of course, the plane takes off again, and those who stayed behind go back to pretending we’re used to them leaving.
Thanksgiving is coming up, and my aunt is planning it. She’s going all out: decorating, cooking, trying to make the day feel special. And it will be. But there’s also something unspoken among us. We all know that Thanksgiving, and every holiday that follows, will never feel entirely whole again. Not without the ones who left.
Now that I’m in college, I think I understand what my parents meant when they said time moves too fast. The years go by, the flights get longer, and the table gets smaller. But every time we manage to come together, even for a weekend, it feels like coming home to a version of us that distance hasn’t taken away. So, from someone whose family has been affected by the diaspora, I can only say this: hold your loved ones close. Savor every moment, because once they’re gone, they’re gone forever, and there is so much more to life than living with regret of letting those moments pass you by.