just the window

My grandmother pressed her weathered hand against the glass, gazing toward Srivilliputhur's distant temple spires. Distance couldn't diminish her longing. From her apartment in Toronto, she'd stream videos of the annual festival, her eyes glistening with recognition. That window became our bridge. My cousins in Chennai would video call, their laughter flooding through the screen. Money transferred easily through apps, supporting the orphanage she loved back home. But the real currency was watching her face transform, reconnected to roots that fed her soul. Through that simple pane, our scattered family remained beautifully whole, woven together by memory and devotion.