why should I hold onto hands that are no longer there?

2

I'm not sure how long ago it was, maybe a month, maybe two, maybe three, but I had messaged my cousin on Facebook. I'm honestly surprised that she was even on the thing, with her being younger than me, but from some miracle(?) She was. It was hard for me to work up the courage to even talk to her-- god when was the last time I had even seen her? I remember her as this little girl who is supposed to look up to me, but instead I looked up to her, like literally. She was huge. Anyway, I asked her what felt like millions of questions, but it was really just the same one, only rephrased in various of different ways. Filled in with names and details that I can't bring myself to define here. The question was simply just "how are they?" How was my family-- there's that word, 'my.' Are they really mine? Do I even deserve to call them mine at this point? All I have is my memories of them, all I have is remnants of when I had the right to say that I was apart of their family. After a long and grueling 6 hours she finally responded back to the query i had given to her, in the sweetest way possible, that I knew I would receive only from asking her, "They were doing alright, they still laughed and smiled, they still talk about you--" they still talked about me? That was what had surprised me the most. Its what had made my heart clench and my stomach tense up. I wasn't forgotten? Left to blow away into the wind? They remembered me? They still joked and spoke about me? Even now I can't believe it, because that means they must care about me right? And If they do how come they never fought for me to come back? How come they never went out of their way to see me? Or speak to me? "They are all doing good, they still smile and laugh. I don't see you're dad, or mommom and poppop often, but I can tell you how great everyone else is doing! I dont mind answering because I know how hard it can be not to see them since my parents had a falling out and I hadn't seen them for a bit either--" My cousin spoke with sympathy, and understanding, and I have to wonder. Did she even know what had gone down that morning? Did any of them know what had really happened? Do they know the full story? Do they know how long and how hard I had cried that day? I didn't have the heart to ask this of course, none of this was her fault. We had the same story but with different details, the same song but with a different tune, the same basic cornerstone, we were like a tree with our own separate branches. Bastard children, forced to visit once every week or so to visit our fathers and their side of the family. Only, her parents separated later in her life, she lived a lot closer and had more opportunities to see them than I did, she got, and still has, more years with them. Her family didn't turn their backs to her, didn't silently take her back to her mother with nothing more than a farewell and her bags. They would've fought for her. They would have called her, visited her, would've payed her some sort of attention. She has a place in their homes, she has her face within the frames on their shelves, she deserves to be there. I don't. I don't belong there, I used to call their place home once, but I'm more of a stranger now, trying to intrude in on a happy family. I know this, I'm reminded of this everyday when I look in the mirror and see my fathers features on my face. I know it would be selfish to take this out on her so I don't, instead I grip tightly onto my bedsheets and fight back the tears that threaten to fall, back when they could fall. How much have I missed out on? Where did the little cousin I remember go? Now she is all grown up, she is beautiful. She has matured so much, and although she is still making her way in the world, figuring out where she belongs, although she is still so young, mearly only 14, not much younger than me, she still seems so much older than the girl whose smiling face I can only see within the tight walls of my mind. We weren't super close or anything like that when we were younger, and I didn't see her often, but it was still bizarre to see how much she has changed. Although she was different, I could still see her familiar features, she almost looked the same she had so long ago. It feels like it was a century ago, although it has only been 6 years. She has long brown hair, and bright brown eyes. Her face is the splitting image of her fathers, which I sadly, am struggling to remember. What I can remember is only thanks to her face and her smile. I wonder what they see me as, if they see me as the sad little child that was left behind, as the bastard child who never really fit in with them in the first place, I wonder if they regret not spending more time with me while they could. Maybe if they fought for me, I wouldn't had been so quick to be the one to walk away. To walk away on my own, instead of being pushed away as I had been in the first place. Do I regret it? Do I regret not acting on that second chance?  Was it a second chance for me or for for them? Which one did I throw away? I had the chance to see them, I was seeing them, and at the first sign of conflict, I walked away and never looked back. Do I really have any right to complain? Is it really their fault that my tone as turned so bitter when I speak of them? I guess I'll never know.