Family Reunions

On Tuesday, Michael and I rode down with my mother, my uncle, and two of my cousins to Maryland for a not-so-happy sort of family reunion. My Great-Aunt Sylvia passed away last Friday, and Tuesday we were gathering for a funeral and burial.

Tia Sylvia was the last of her generation, the middle child of the five children my great-grandfather had with his fourth and last wife, my great-grandmother. And so, the American branch (or at least the Mid-Atlantic branch) of the Flores family came together, Tuesday morning at 11:00 am in Greenbelt, MA to pay final respects to her and to that generation.

In attendance were:
From the Clan of Mariana Flores: My mother, two uncles, one aunt, two cousins, my grandfather and his wife, Michael and myself.

From the Clan of Edilberto Reyes: two cousin-uncles (as we call them), their wives, and their combined seven children.

From the Clan of David Flores: two cousin-uncles, one aunt, and their combined six children.

From the Clan of Sylvia Flores: two cousin-aunts, one cousin-uncle, and their combined seven children.

(Ismael Flores, who died in his youth, had no clan to represent him.)

These forty persons represent only a fraction of the Flores family. There remain at least seven more cousin-aunts/uncles in Honduras, their spouses, and their children, as well as those spread throughout the United States, and perhaps throughout the world.

Though the circumstances of this particular reunion were less than ideal, it allowed me the space for contemplation that the previous three reunions (a.k.a. weddings) did not provide. For the first time, I was impressed with the sheer size of my family tree. I have, of course, always known my extended family was...extensive. Besides the Flores family, there is also the Viera family, the Sauceda Family, and the Rodriguez family, each at least as large as the Flores, if not larger. But on Tuesday, as I observed each of my cousins mourning the oldest generation, I was deeply impressed that so many people share some little bit of blood, of genetic code, of history with me.

I was also deeply impressed with the connection we continue to maintain despite the very mobile lifestyles each member enjoys. Despite the fact that my great-grandfather never left his hometown, his progeny have spread not only to various Honduran cities, but many American cities, across several states, as well. But as it has always been true since I can remember, when we come together it's as if no time has passed at all. There are just more children.

I was most deeply impressed, however, by how little I know of our own story. Of who they all were before America, before me, before. And as I watched my youngest cousins drop roses into my great-aunt's grave, I thought about how much story is left to tell, and how few are left to tell it.

And maybe this is what I mourned most when I mourned my great-aunt Sylvia, the last of her generation.