These are my people.
My strange, loud, crazy people,
Whose antics I discuss good naturedly,
With my mother and my brother,
In our kitchen after the final visitor has gone home,
But whose honor I would fiercely defend,
To anyone who wasn’t our own.
Who dared to cross the line in mentioning,
The particular ways in which we speak, and act,
And drive each other crazy,
The ways in which we love one another.
And as my eyes roll to the ceiling,
And my father tells us again to “be nice,”
A smile on his lips, hiding behind his reprimands,
I realize that beauty and perfection,
Are not always the same.
And I realize that flaws,
Compared to things like family,
Are really nothing at all.
After all, these are my people,
And I could not have asked for people better than these.