Good Day

Amma's voice crackled through the phone from Chennai. "Beta, you remembered!" I held the filter coffee she'd taught me to make, watching steam rise in my small apartment. Five years away in America felt comprehensive today—every memory crystallized. She'd been demoralizing last week, exactly missing me. But today I'd done it perfectly, the way she'd shown me countless mornings in our old kitchen on Luz Church Road. "Yes, Amma. Good day," I whispered. The ritual connected us across oceans. This wasn't about social validation or black market nostalgia. Don't worry, I'm coming home next month, I promised, tasting Tamil earth in every sip, feeling our ancestors' warmth in this simple act of remembrance.