Friends come and go, but families are forever. That concept to me has always felt so restrictive and so invalidating of platonic love. For the longest time my distaste for the thought has remained unchanged, but just recently, for the past few months or so, I have found myself, much to the me of previous years’ disdain, facing a shift in what I feel about the impermanence of friends, or rather, as I prefer it, the constant and perennial nature of family. Last week, for my brother’s birthday and my father’s homecoming celebration, my family and I got together with relatives from my father’s side for a classic Pinoy beach day. With plastic gloves, paper plates, food and soft drinks, and the combination of alcohol and talkative adults all set up and ready, my cousins and I knew we would not be going home any time soon. We had unfortunately passed the age of overexcited frenzy at the mere sight of water and idea of swimming, so we were stuck sitting on the stiff bamboo seats of the kubo hut. It was awkward for the first few minutes, as it always is when we don’t see each other in a long time. After we got past the kamustahan or catching-up bit (“That typhoon was really something, huh?”), the tone shifted, and suddenly we were talking about our lives at our schools and sharing our opinions on subjects outside of our usual talk of video games, comics, and art. We even had time to reminisce about the life experience, so scarce yet so rich at the same time, we have had with each other, with additional commentary and hindsight. It was the most personal conversation I had had with them until that point—it surprises me that it took us this long—and I had the most wonderful time. I felt like the protagonist of Dave Egger’s Accident; slowly and slowly the tense and uncomfortable feelings of that day were lifted by the seemingly simple and mundane act of human socialization, and suddenly I love everyone and all is beautiful and sparkling and deserving of my utmost admiration and gratitude. For the first time in forever I saw a different side to my cousins, the cousins that I have bickered and fought and made up and have had temper tantrums with, have seen all phases of life of, and have been with since we were in diapers. What we knew of each other until then, I would say, was of one dimension only, with the other parts of each other’s person reserved for different friendships. We did not do the usual things I would do with my other friends, yet I found comfort and familiarity in their presence despite that, something that I have yet to find in the people who I tell everything to, but have known for a relatively shorter time. It must be the security—or taking for granted, if I’m being honest—of what I have with them. I did not have a say when I was born as the child of their mother’s brother, and have no choice but to be present in whatever get-together our family plans. But I understand as well the feeling of dread at this thought. As seen in the characters of Miss Mijares in Kerima Polotan Tuvera’s The Virgin and Dora in Lakambini Sitoy’s Touch, this mentality can get toxic, especially in the context of the Philippines and its traditions and culture. The notion of family being inescapable and permanent can quickly turn into a ball and chain of obligation, one that perseveres and must be followed no matter how burnt out a person might be or how traumatic past experiences with a family member might have been. However, I now believe that the people and ideologies that weaponize the saying to oppress others are what bring harm. I see the saying now as a means to highlight the people closest to us, not to diminish the weight friendships hold in a person’s life. Whether it was sunny or downcast there, on that day at the beach, I do not remember. What I do know is that if before I felt claustrophobic at the notion of being bound to my kin forever, now I feel a relief that no matter what I do, I still have people, whom I love dearly, that I can return to.