I remember the whole family around one table, laughing.
No matter how far everyone travels, the table is where the family still gathers.
The table was too small for all of us, and we liked it that way — shoulders touching, elbows claiming territory, reaching across for the rice and the stories.
Someone always laughed with their mouth full. Someone always argued about something small. And always, underneath it all, there was the quiet certainty that this was where we belonged.
The years scattered us to different cities, different countries. But the table came with us in a way — the same jokes, the same dishes, the same way of sitting close.
I remember the last big holiday we all made it home. I sat at the head of the table and just watched them, all of them, and thought: this is what I have built. This is the whole harvest.