Tonight, I had my first bowl of rice in weeks.

Cooked perfectly in my Cuckoo,

my rice maker is the only being in my life who consistently speaks to me in

my mother’s tongue.

Without expectation of response,

I am invited to feel the fullness of my ancestry;

belonging to a people who measure wellness in rice.

Steaming each grain to perfection in exactly twenty-five minutes,

I lean on modern technology to meet my forever need

of omma.

One day, I too will sing to my children when our rice is ready

and think fondly of her manufactured

presence.

Her jingle a reminder of the consistent nourishment

we have always been worthy of.