be happy

Amma's letters arrived yellowed and fragrant, written in Tamil script I struggled to read. She described monsoons in Chennai while I sat in Toronto, refreshing crypto wallets at dawn. My poet grandmother's words echoed through generations—joy exists beyond circumstance. One morning, I earned enough to visit home. Walking streets she'd walked, speaking her language again, something shifted. The screen's glow faded. Real warmth replaced digital security. In our ancestral home, surrounded by family voices, I understood her poems finally. Happiness wasn't elsewhere. It lived in us, in our stories, in every voice that carried our heritage forward.