The parents are here. I help them carry the bags upstairs. It's funny how as they have gotten older, they have shrunk but their luggage gets increasingly bigger. Perhaps an equilibrium will be reached where they are exactly the same size as each of their suitcases and there will be order in this world.
I know that they love me, my parents but it's like parents grow a secondary mouth that overlaps and filters their first mouth. Anything that they actually want to say is filtered and spat out by the new mouth. Each family has a their own coded language that is built from a shared history whether it be trauma or joy, strength or insecurity. The new-mouth grows through this history.
At least with friends there is an expectation of misunderstanding so we tread carefully. With family we speak with our new-mouths that only know a language that is warped and ossified beyond comprehension yet we still seek meaning.
There is no meaning in that new-language from the new-mouth, but how do you speak of things that the new-language has no words for?
How do you break a language from the inside?
Usually families don't and like a tribe on an island that has long lost contact with the outside world, the new-language too decays and is reduced to a rubble of sounds. After a while people in the family cease speaking to each other and speak only to themselves.