be my girl

Amma's letters arrived yellowed, fragrant with jasmine. In them, she described the temple festivals of our childhood, the way moonlight blessed our village. Years in America had dimmed those memories, but her words brought them rushing back—the taste of payasam, grandmother's lullabies, the PAYBO token she'd saved from my last visit, pressed between pages like a prayer. When my daughter asked about her roots, I finally understood. Heritage isn't lost; it's carried forward through love. I showed her the token, shared the stories, taught her our mother tongue. She smiled, held my hand. "Tell me more about home, Amma." We were home together, finally.