On Tuesday morning, before I left for the airport to fly back up to the Bay, I sat on the couch with my Nanima and asked her to tell me some stories.

She looked at me, started to laugh, and said, “You tell me some stories. My stories are from so long ago. I can barely remember anything.”

But I was stubborn. And I selfishly just wanted to snuggle up next to her and listen to her talk.

So I kept asking.

And, a few minutes later, she started talking.

About her long walks with her friends where they would stop at the sugar cane cart. She explained that, back then, walking outside wasn’t a form of exercise – it was their mode of transport.

And then she stopped talking.

I watched her eyes widen as she sat there – remembering all the little details of her life -with a slight smile on her face.

A few seconds passed and then she told me another story. About the time that she sung on stage when Gandhiji had passed away. How she was always singing. On her walk to and from her dorm room. In the shower. Wherever she went. And how she always came out #1 in any singing competition. Back then, she never really understood it as a gift. She just enjoyed doing it.

And then silence again.

And then another story.

And, after an hour, we just sat there. Stories unfolded and unpacked.

Nanima – grinning because she remembered so much more than she thought she did.

Me – grinning because I got a taste of my Nanima’s life long before I joined the party. And because I got some good snuggle time before leaving her.

My heart breaks every time I have to say goodbye to her. But only a few more weeks until I’m back to my storyteller. And, for that, I’m thankful.

Question of the Day:

• What are you thankful for today?