“Are you even related?” My mother inquires, her vocal vibrations echoing down the empty hallway.

I glance between my sister and father. None of us have the same patience. My father has patience like a bird teaching its babies to fly. My patience is a sailboat waiting to take flight.

But my sister, my sister’s patience is like a pack of screaming, flailing seagulls on a beach shore. Throwing up her arms, she sprints towards my father’s computer. “When are we going to leave? You said we would leave at 3:15. It’s 3:22!” Her voice shakes the carefully lit candles on the table. Amber’s voice is like her patience; they twist in order to conquer their own personal agendas. Her patience is a dog panting, pacing, in circles around a depleted food dish. It is like a tornado—effortlessly volatile.

My father exchanges a glare with me before turning slowly to Amber with a silent scream. His patience is constantly tugged at, yet it never falters. “I have to finish something. Go play with the dog,” he offers with a trying smile. The bookcases shook their heads in disapproval, he was too lenient. My father’s patience is like a cat pawing at its scratch post—slow yet forceful.

I shake my head, mimicking the bookshelves, and shoot a glance at Amber. My patience is a delicate, glass dinner plate balancing on a thin thread. And Amber, she constantly desires to pull the thread.

The patience in my family is like a tug-of-war game on repeat...with three year olds. Amber’s patience falters on the turn of a doorknob, my father’s patience then is like a rusty door stopper which attempts to halt the damage yet fails with a creak. My patience, my patience is a teeter saw trying to balance out the two opposites.

“Are we even related?” I scoff with a look between the two of them.