It’s a storm in a shadowbox, a force to be reckoned with.

Interesting weekend. Forty-eight hours spent on Long Island (or as I like to call it, Lawng Guyland), immersed in the events of a distant family member’s Lawng Guyland wedding, will inevitably supply endless fodder for story-telling and intense reflection.

And on both counts this weekend sure as hell did not disappoint.

While much of the past forty-eight hours would rival anything David Lynch has ever put on screen (I am so not kidding—we're talking moments where I wondered aloud whether I was, in fact, asleep in my bed dreaming up the madness playing out before me), I’m not here to talk about those particular details right now. (Maybe later.)

For aside from the David Lynchian, Twin Peaks-esque, white-lodge-with-midgets-dancing-around-and-speaking-backwards-
while-hot-women-make-out-with-each-other-and-voluptuous-
singers-croon-Roy-Orbison-songs-in-Spanish atmosphere of it all, what made even more of an impression on me, believe it or not, was all the love.

Not necessarily the love between the bride and groom, though that was nice to see as it always is; but more the intense and at times overwhelming feelings of love I experienced gathered around tables over the course of the weekend with family members I never see, who nevertheless played important roles in my upbringing and adolescence. Distant relatives that have since been relegated, through nothing but the normal circumstances of life, to the status of those that are seen solely at weddings and funerals. So this time it was a wedding, rather than the funerals that have become the unfortunate norm.

These are people I grew up surrounded by. Literally. Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, reunions, gatherings of any sort, really, were all massive undertakings—huge masses of people packed body to body in small houses that smelled of food and drink, felt of warmth and humidity, and sounded like jet engines hovering overhead instead of simply roaring past and leaving stillness in their wake. Sure it was overwhelming at times, especially for the kids and/or pets among us. But now that family gatherings have become so much smaller and quieter, I realize how much I loved and looked forward to those crazy, busting-at-the-seams events.

And that’s what kept impressing itself upon me Saturday night, as I sat and talked and laughed and reveled in the closeness I still feel with the dear people seated around me at Table Number 4. My date was my grandmother, my only surviving grandparent, who asked me months ago if I would attend with her. And despite my initial...reluctance...to spend a precious weekend (after several of nonstop work) out on the island for this particular event, I readily agreed since there is nothing in this world I would not do for that woman. And surrounded by most of the surviving members of her generation in my family, I quickly realized there was nowhere else I’d rather be. While it did make me think about and miss those that are no longer “with us,” I also felt a kind of deep appreciation that I didn’t even realize I had.

At one point, I swear to god, I looked over and saw one of my great aunts affectionately stroking the neck of her husband, my great uncle, and I actually got choked up. I’m not kidding. It’s ridiculous, but whatever. I’m admitting it here nonetheless.

Over brunch the next morning, conversation turned at one point to the ages of everyone gathered around the table. And I realized that, no matter what, I will never be able to think of these people, these relatives, as septua- and octogenarians. It’s impossible to recognize that fact and reconcile it with the images I hold of them in my mind’s eye at all those parties, all those gatherings, in the houses with the straining walls and the jet-engine roars of laughter and conversation. Octogenarians are those nameless, faceless people tottering along with their walkers or crowded into nursing homes—not these vibrant people gathered around this table laughing hysterically, shouting at the tops of their lungs, making fun of each other relentlessly, and boogie-ing down at weddings! No way.

Funny that I can make more sense out of David Lynch symbology and Twin Peaks freakishness. What can I say. Pass me a donut.