Family familiarity
In one week, my cousin Donald will join the army.
My little cousin Donald, who's 18 now and a high school graduate.
Hardly seems possible.
I still remember the day he was born, back in my foggy memories of childhood: I'm standing in our Omaha kitchen, and I hear the news that my grandma is now a great-grandmother.
I remember thinking, How do you know when you become a great-grandmother? Is there a certain age you reach when you automatically get the title? A certain day of the year?
Hey, I was only seven.
Since that day in 1984, four other siblings have followed Donald, and thus was born the "kids" group: the pack of us that always hung out together at holidays and other family gatherings.
Now I'm 24, and the "grown-ups" still consider me one of the young 'uns who get to sit at the kids' table for Christmas dinner.
And it's extremely weird to think of my cousin, whom I used to hold as a baby, now graduating into the post-high school limbo that my brother and I occupy.
Time flies. And it teaches me things.
This is why I'm here. Why I'm proud to call Kansas home and proud to live here too.
Because for all its tornadoes, annoyingly slow drivers, and blistering hot summers, it's home.
However, it's not the center of the universe. I still want to live in a huge metropolis of a city like New York, own a tiny beach cabin on the Georgia coast, travel through western Europe with only a backpack and a Eurail pass.
But for now, I'll continue to add the miles on my aging car as I drive up and down I-35 visiting my grandma. I'll keep worrying about my uncle's Colorado cabin, which is in danger of being destroyed by the Hayman fire as I write this.
I'll continue to gripe about the temperature in my parents' house, where my dad is the king of utility bill stinginess.
And I'll be grateful for the opportunity.
— JENNIFER WILSON
