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I was wrapped in four-part harmony and the tears just started rolling.

A lot of things were happening this weekend- a food and music festival on campus as the alumni returned, a singing competition I'd prepared for during the last three months (and I stood a good chance of doing well), and... a family reunion on my mom's side.

Now usually, the third choice would come last behind those other two. Family reunions, especially on that side, usually constitute sitting around watching older cousins play with their new babies, listening to aunts and uncles and ancient grandmothers reminisce, and watching my more estranged teenage cousins attempt to make awkward conversation after a year's separation.

But while I was sitting in the hospital waiting room last Sunday night, trying not to cry and usually failing, praying for good news, indifferent news, any news about my roommate, I had this song running through my head. It's very corny and strange, because it's meant to be a broken-heart song, but the words mean enough out of context: "Without you I'm not okay... without you I've lost my way. My heart's stuck in second place." (That's Without You, by the Dixie Chicks, btw) And I had that silly, kindergartner's cry echoing through my head:

I want my mommy.

And so, reflecting on that, it seems much more logical that I chose the family reunion, doesn't it? I caught a ride with the wife of an aforesaid older cousin and their two little girls, who were both under the age of 2. Arrived, and to my surprise, not only was the estranged cousin who hadn't even bothered to show up for last Thanksgiving there (she's 19, and spent the entire weekend in town with her boyfriend), but so was the cousin I had heart-to-hearts with all through high school.

Erin and I hadn't seen each other since just before our senior years began. We hugged so hard we rocked back and forth for a moment, and then began the rounds of hugging and kissing everyone there, telling everyone college was "great," promising to sing one of my new opera songs later, and retreating out to the creek with Erin and her sisters (15 and 12... such darlings) followed by a few tumbling grubby next-generation boys all under the age of 6 that wanted to skip rocks and chase the black lab into the water.

It just got better and better. Even though there's something to be said for people that start knowing you from scratch and take you as you are, I still will always need the ones who know eighteen years' worth of me, who heard my secrets at Thanksgiving and Christmas and during spring break and still remembered it next time I saw them.

And after dinner, once I'd finally given the obligatory voice recital, my mother and three aunts and their cousins started singing hymns. Seven women, none of whom can really boast a soloist's talent, most of whom are terrified to sing alone in the first place, descended from barbershoppers and lullaby singers, who could sing a church book from page 1 on. They asked me, the soprano, and my second cousin, Ashley, the alto, to join in, and we "woodshedded" a while, making up harmonies to the songs we knew, humming them to the ones we didn't, and waiting our turns if we were completely lost.

Sometimes it was four-part harmony, just there, and there's something about families- their voices are tailored like strands of the same braid and they just fit. Then they lapsed into an ancient hymn I didn't know, and I stood in the circle we'd unconsciously formed, lifting my chin and forcing a smile and looking at the hanging lamp as it quivered and bled through the lake welling in my eyes.

But I caught Ashley's eye and her cheeks were wet, so my tears just fell. One after another, silent and cool, and I couldn't just stand there; I went to my mom's shoulder and leaned my head against her throat, my arms around her waist from behind, listening to her modest (but to a girl who slept by that voice, perfect) alto and just crying.

Even remembering it makes me cry. And I know it's trite and sentimental, but home is one of those places that will always be trite and sentimental. I couldn't imagine spending my weekend anywhere else but home, be it Houston or Llano or Idaho or Belgium, so long as the same voices are there.

What I love, though, is that they didn't coo and ask what was wrong- they tucked my hair out of my face and squeezed my shoulder, hugged my waist, surreptitiously caught a tear and whisked it away with a thumb, said they missed my soprano.

I love... whatever I put here, it's going to sound ridiculous, so I'll just leave it at that. I love.

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