His mom hugged me hello
and invited me downstairs.
Soft Indian dance music cascaded out of the speakers,
while little brothers tackled each other in the adjoining room.

His grandma handed me
plate after plate of food.
I ate it all and told her how much I loved it,
before downing bottles of water to neutralize the spice-filled sauces.

His cousin told me that I would never find anyone like him:
motivated, caring, attractive.
I conceded that he was probably right
but for different reasons than just those three traits.

Someone said I was a part of the family now.
Someone else said they couldn’t see it.
It came to my attention once again,
that I was the only white person in the house.

I suspected everyone must experience the 
uncomfortable curiosity of being an outsider
at least a few times in their lives,
some much more often than others.

His family, and those he called Aunt and Uncle, but weren’t related,
all volunteered some short speeches
of funny memories and celebratory remarks.
I wondered if anyone would have said any of it about me:

that I was like a brother to them,
or they hoped they would see me again
on our late-night Taco Bell runs
or all-day sessions of pick-up basketball.

I guessed probably not.