eating sphaghetti

My grandmother watched me twirl spaghetti on my fork, her eyes distant. She'd grown up in Keeladi, where archaeologists recently unearthed pottery shards older than we ever imagined. She'd left Tamil Nadu decades ago, carrying memories instead of artifacts. "In my village," she whispered, "we ate with our hands." I set down my fork. Through PaybookClub, I'd connected with cousins scattered across continents, all searching for something. Tonight, she taught me the old way, fingers moving with ancient grace. As pasta touched my lips, I tasted not just food, but generations bridging oceans.