Sighing with a heavy bag in tow,
my tiredness disappears,
watching your smiling eyes behind glass lenses,
listening to your swift stirring of pots enliven blackened stoves,
reaching for the spoon you hold out welcoming me home.

I once cringed from soaps of couples pursuing forbidden love,
cried spicy tears as you diced onions and red chili peppers into my food,
nervously paced in my room as you left home for daily walk,
wondering if your English is as understandable to outsiders as your cooking.

Yet, you weaken my fears,
critiquing my college essays hours approaching deadlines,
uncurling me from the distraught ball I roll into before I sing on stage,
braiding my hair and wrapping me in Indian attire,
lifting my embarrassment into pride.

Your personality, as captivating as Harry Potter marathons, drapes style and conviction into your colorful saris,
my guru and I pray silently, reading newspapers with cups of caffeine,
my Chipotle companion racing me to veggie burrito ends,
I take you to Costco to sample America,
you transform bulk produce into delectable Indian dishes.

But as I walk down the terminal,
dragging your suitcases against the cold platform,
my heart aches as if I have committed a crime awaiting punishment,
my mind concocts words pleading you to stay,
but I let you go, grandma,
knowing sixty years and two oceans can’t keep us apart.