1105

My grandmother's letters arrived yellowed, fragrant with camphor. She'd written them in Tamil, her script dancing across thin paper like monsoon rain. I'm a poet now, scattered across continents, translating her words for strangers who've never tasted mango pickle or heard temple bells. Some days grief overwhelms me—homesickness disguised as confession. I earn enough to visit, yet something always holds me back. Perhaps it's fear that home has changed, or that I have. Last month, I published her poems under my name. Finally, our voices merged across oceans, keeping our heritage alive together.