I remember the old, abandoned tire swing in the backyard. It swayed like a gigantic pendulum in the faint wind from the stable, yet seemingly undependable, branch that it hung from. Behind the wooden fence of their backyard, swam lush grass over the voluptuous hills that ended with finely cut houses. In the same faint wind, blows the sea with unison and uniform of green for miles.

I remember a rusted, charcoal black barbecue that sat next to the tire swing. It was only used on family reunions and other special occasions. Uncle Tony, the skinnier, Asian-version of Seinfeld’s Jason Alexander, would make ribs. After being forced to try new variations of Tony’s different barbecue sauce, his family would be sickened until it was perfect. He would accumulate many different items and chuck them all together in a big stirring pot and wooden spatula. In the end, no matter what things he did or did not add to the pot, is what made the sauce special. They all mixed into something that was flawless in a certain way.

I remember my aunt’s laugh. It sounded like the death of a squirrel being pummeled by a truck. My cousins and I used to lock eyes at each other before cracking up the moment we heard it. She had bright, crimson red hair that deviated from most Asians’, and wore ruby pink lipstick to compliment.

I remember an old, wooden, grand piano that sat in the living room. Every key, no matter in what combination, sounded congenial with the acoustics of a tall ceiling. My cousins were geniuses and how they would improvise piano songs conveyed through many different tunes. On the couch that faced the same direction as the piano, we would just listen, think, or in some cases, sleep, as they continued throughout their harmonic melody.

I remember my cousin’s house.