good afternoon thanks

Every afternoon, Amma messages the family group chat from Chennai. "Good afternoon, thanks for calling yesterday," she writes, though nobody called. It's her ritual, her way of staying connected across oceans. My sister in London laughs. My brother in New York sighs. But I understand. Amma's words are love letters wrapped in Tamil politeness, earning her place in our scattered hearts. She sends photos of the old house's jasmine flowers, remembers recipes nobody asks for anymore. Through her gratitude, we taste home. We remember who we are, woven between continents, still bound by her afternoon blessings and the warmth of ancestors watching over us.