Somehow or the other the family always ended up alone. The father had to work in a place far away, people deserted, happiness deserted, far far away. The mother had to stay back and tend house, empty rooms, memories echoed corridors; people remembered to ask about the family, never her always just the family. The elder one ran away as far as she could, yet everywhere she went every person she tried to be, always surrounded by people yet always lonely when it mattered. The youngest dreamt as far as she could yet she was schooled in it the earliest.
First the family got angry and mad about this damning affliction, fog tinged loneliness sneaked its way in to all four lives. Then set in calm, placid acceptance. After which came the effervescent optimism, even though it flowed and ebbed, in the back of their minds they wondered how long would it last. The best thing was it stayed. The house bloomed red and flushed ringing with life, with their happy. The youngest fell in love. The eldest fell in love with herself. She stopped running. She rooted there in the family. The youngest found a place to be, not as she dreamed not in herself but in him.
Will it last? Will it not, didn’t matter anymore. They loved again and then they were alone no more. They were a family.
The circle they completed. The only one that mattered.