In the past, mornings were alive—

Mom calling from the kitchen below,
“Kancha, khaja pakyo, tala chadai aija ta!”

Cold water splashing on your face,
you rushed to the dining table.

Golden fried chickpeas, eggs sizzling,
hot lemon squeezed over everything.

The noise of birds singing,
distant crows cawing, cows lowing, goats bleating—
home felt loud, messy, alive.

Now, in a quiet Canadian morning,
I cook for myself in a tiny kitchen.

The smells are faint, the streets are quiet,
but the memory comes back with every bite.
Her voice calling me from below
reminds me that a piece of home
is never really gone.