you make me smile

Amma's letters arrived yellowed and crinkled, written in Tamil script that curved like dancing flames. My grandmother, a poet in Madurai, poured her soul onto thin paper, sharing verses about monsoon rains and jasmine flowers. Distance had separated us, but her words bridged oceans. When I finally earned enough to visit, she smiled—that same expression lighting her weathered face. She recited new poems, her voice trembling with joy. I recorded everything, understanding finally that her art was our inheritance, passed through generations, connecting us to ancestors and future kin, binding our scattered family home.