Mother always expressed our cousins with the prefix 'distant'. Maybe it became embroiled as bad habit; her tendency to alienate us for three weeks on end trapped in our very own house. She was quite a character— not a colloquial-equipped character, but a character nevertheless.

Our story began in North Carolina, our house beside a vineyard long rotting from neglect. When the days grew long my sisters and I went there and paraded amongst the vines plucking any grapes which survived the onslaught of abandonment. Ava, my youngest sister, always sought out the ripest ones, throwing away semi-ripen and looking for the fattest, juiciest fruits. There was always a doubt in the population of these specimens— since the vines sprouted yearly, it wasn't guaranteed that any of the grapes grew, but she tried anyway. It wasn't a surprise Ava became the next CEO of Crest toothpaste. Her long lasting ambition paid off.

I, on the other hand, was fine with rotting grapes. My other sisters were obsessed over the deep purple color and texture and water, while I was content with taste. Give me a wrinkled grape and I won't care as long as it tasted all right. I would grow up to be a vagabond, while my other sisters decided it was best for father to find them husbands and knit in the darkness for the rest of their lives. I couldn't imagine such a thing, no,  I won't depend on any man besides the milkman! No, I was a traveler, looking for newness of the day every time the sun rose from the east, and reflected upon the end when it set in the West. Everything to me, was a cycle.