missing you

Amma's letters arrived in envelopes yellowed with time, filled with Tamil verses she'd copied by hand. My grandmother was a poet once, composing scandalous love songs that made elders whisper, her breath-taking words rampant through village streets. After moving abroad, I'd forgotten her language, mind-blowing in its loss. Then one evening, rereading those letters, her voice returned—melodic, familiar. I began translating her poems, sharing them online. Strangers resonated deeply, commenting with support and recognition of their own forgotten heritage. Amma passed before seeing my work published. Yet her Tamil words now live through countless readers, our community's breath continuing beyond us.