My Grandmother’s Name was Latha

As a child, I plucked seashells
From the shores of Colombo’s beaches
And stuffed them in heart-shaped boxes
’Til they were full to the brim.

When we made the trip across the ocean,
Airport security forced my suitcase open,
Said “No foreign objects across the border.”
I held back tears and left my hearts behind.

After we boarded, my mother told me
Seashells can drift away with waves
And they can be lifted with fingertips,
But they can’t be kept forever in boxes.

Before she forgets me, tell her I loved her
As long as she let me come near
Her skin like warm butter, eyes like cold night
Hair like worn out feathers, face just like my sister’s.

When we last spoke, I asked her how I should live
Once my Athamma slipped away from me.
She held me and whispered, “My Punchi Duwa,
Names are like seashells.”