I’ve been thinking about past lives a lot lately. Not in the spiritual sense (although it could be argued that anything can be co-opted by the spiritual, the wo-woo, the Bigger Picture), rather literal past lives; the people we once were at certain times and in certain places. Not a new concept, obviously, but one that creeps up on me every now and then and wraps its tentacles around me until I can only function at half-mast, the weight of memories and what-ifs tugging more and more desperately so that at some point I must succumb.

My youngest cousin on my mom’s side just graduated from college. A cousin graduating wouldn’t mean much to most, but to me, it’s the same as a younger sibling graduating. I grew up with my maternal cousins as pseudo-siblings, and today their children are my pseudo-nephews and nieces. There are 11 of us: seven girls, four boys; born in sets. Two girls came first, the second of the pair within two years. Two more girls came after, this time the second within two months of the other (60 days, to be exact, which the second girl always is). After that, a girl and a boy, born within three months of each other. Then two girls (9 months apart) and, finally, three boys, all brothers, all within six years of age. So, 11 total with 20 years between us.

To celebrate the youngest of the bunch graduating from college is to celebrate the end of a chapter in our collective lives. Aside from our parents, aunts, and uncles, I’m probably the only one who thinks about it in that way; I’ve always led the charge in nostalgia and sentimentality. The baby of the bunch becoming a full-fledged adult is a big deal, though. All of us cousins are now on the same playing field: out of school, in the world, doing our best to make ends meet and carve out a space for ourselves within the lives we’ve chosen. Some of us are in healthcare, some in administrative roles; one watches over all her nieces and nephews, of which there are already seven, with one on the way; all but four of us are married; all live in Minnesota except for me and the youngest. As cousins, we only share a sliver of DNA among us, but the traits on that side of the family run deep, strong, and stubborn, making us even more like siblings.

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Our grandmother was the leader of the family: She set the tone (loud, service-oriented, bigger is better, sleep is for when you’re dead), the rest of us followed. Our grandfather was the anchor of the family: steadfast, soft-spoken, patient, and always one step ahead of the rest of us. When we lost them both in 2020, it felt as if our family had been shoved out into choppy waters on a moonless night. Our captains were gone, and the rest of us flailed to figure out how to show up and keep moving. Five years later and things have settled, but there are still moments when I can’t tell what’s up and what’s down, and the urge to call my grandpa tugs at me without a satisfactory way to sate it. Same when a baseball game is playing on the radio, or someone needs to make an announcement and it’s quickly identified that I have the loudest voice, a hand-me-down from my grandma. They would be so proud of their brood of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, each of us a little slice of them. All of us equally proud of each other.

It’s also likely that our grandparents would be baffled by the world in its current state. Grandpa died a month before COVID and three months before George Floyd was murdered. Grandma lived until November of that year; she had to be evacuated from her apartment during the riots following Floyd’s murder and spent her last days in the chaos and uncertainty of those early COVID months. She lived just long enough to see Biden win the presidency, and I know exactly how she and grandpa would feel about the current administration’s return to power. They raised their five children to be fair, honest, compassionate, and caring, and they, in turn, raised their kids to be the same. With those values forming the cores of us, navigating a world that rewards greed, hate, nationalism, racism, and fear can feel impossible much of the time. But then I look at the next generation of kids — kids full of energy, sass, wit, fearlessness, joy, imagination, and a clear sense of right and wrong that has yet to be truly tested — and remind myself that I am the role model now; all of us are. The baby of the bunch may have just finished college, but already he’s living out his values in bigger ways than most people have the courage to. Power comes and goes, as do people and moments and chapters of life, but integrity, compassion, and wanting better for others — always better — remains true forever.

It’s a rare rainy day here in Denver, and I wish I could call my grandpa to tell him about it. And about how my coworkers now depend on me for weather reports, just as we used to depend on him. There’s a squirrel I’ve tamed that comes to my deck door for snacks and daily hellos, and I wish I could call my grandma to tell her about it and hear her say, “Oh, ick, I hate rodents!” and then laugh. I work for a food bank and put into action every day the values my grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles instilled in me, and I wish I could tell them how grateful I am for their lessons and lived examples of kindness and service. I travel to Eastern Europe in less than a week and wish I could call them to get their blessing in the form of prayers and “be safe” reminders. The chapter of life with grandma and grandpa in it, with us as the kids, is closed. Now is the chapter when we must show the littles what it is to serve, hope, celebrate, and live with compassion. I hope we do them justice.