good morning

Every dawn, Priya whispered those words in Tamil, her grandmother's language blooming softly through the kitchen. "Good morning, amma," she'd say to the photograph on the shelf. Years away had dimmed her accent, but mornings restored it. She'd brew strong coffee, the ritual effortless now, teaching her daughter the songs she'd nearly forgotten. The trauma of displacement eased with each familiar taste. Her community noticed—how she'd begun sharing recipes, stories, the matchless wisdom passed down. They gathered around her table, hungry for more than food. In that warmth, something precious awakened: a bridge between worlds, held steady by her hands.