Exiting the airport, I feel the heat squirming against my skin. I hear people all around me speaking, and they form sounds I’ve heard all my life but can barely understand. Shaggy dogs sleep in the shade if they can find it, on the burning ground if they can’t. It’s busy in a way that would seem unorganized back home, but here the constant motion nestles itself comfortably in the honking cars and the streets of shops packed haphazardly one on top of the other. Each piece of this place fits together seamlessly even though it feels like it shouldn’t.

“Where are we going now?” I ask my parents.

“Home,” replies my mother.

By home, I know she means her parents’ apartment. When she was younger, she moved around frequently because of her father’s job. By the time her parents had moved to the apartment, she was in college and stayed in the dorms there. After college, she almost immediately moved to the States. Nevertheless, she still calls the apartment her home.

A long taxi ride brings us to the foot of the apartment building. Tiny green lizards cling to the walls that line the stairs, somehow able to hang on despite the angle. They stick out of the concrete like a turmeric stain on a white shirt. They scurry away as we approach.

At the landing, there are two doors, one on each side. I go to the one on the right, the one I’ve been to before. I press the doorbell and hear the mechanical bird caw, followed by hurried footsteps. The door opens, and I’m greeted by enough hugs and kisses to make me suddenly aware of how tired I am. It should be the middle of the night, but here the sky is bright, and I smell lunch simmering in the kitchen.

We all head inside and sit down on chairs and couches that have been arranged into a circle. Everyone is talking, using those strange sounds I recognize but don’t know. They speak quickly, words flowing out of their mouths as smoothly as water in a calm river. Each syllable leads to the next, distinct but connected. Their questions shift to me, and eyes look at me expectantly. I search for the right pieces of sound in my head, the ones that seem so right in other mouths. I try to organize the pieces correctly, but as they escape, they are wrong. They hold no sense of grace, bear no resemblance to the natural songs of language everyone else can sing so beautifully. My audience nods, understanding my meaning but not my message.

Now I stay silent, listening. My grandmother takes me with her to the kitchen to make tea. Not from tea bags, like at home, but with her own mix of spices and flavors. We don’t speak except when she tells me the name of one of her ingredients, names I feel like I should know. Only once all the ingredients have been added and we leave the water to boil does she speak. This time, though, it’s in my language. The one I know, the one I feel. From her mouth, the words are stiff and halting, but she continues. She tells me about going to the shop earlier that morning and picking up cookies to eat with our tea. She looks towards a potted plant sitting on the ground and reminds me of my grandfather’s passion for gardening. Each sound she makes feels right, her phrases feel complete and purposeful, even when she pauses, even when she mispronounces words, even if I don’t understand every word.

The tea is ready, and my grandmother motions for me to pick up the pot. She arranges cups in a row on the counter, empty and cold. I tilt the pot slightly, and my hand quivers under the weight before the warm liquid flows out. Despite my shaking, it glides out evenly, burrowing itself in the cups, and my hand steadies. Each cup is filled and steaming, and I place them on a tray. Left on the bottom of the pot are tiny flakes of dark spices. I think quickly of what to say to my grandmother, in her language, but I see that she has already gone back to the group, leaving me alone. I pick up the tray with both hands and look towards the hub of words, the sanctuary of language that emanates from the old chairs and couch. In this place that is my mother’s home, this place that holds a piece of my own home, I firmly grip the tray’s handles and begin to head over.