This Thanksgiving, 

my parents and I wrap ourselves in warm jackets

and make our way through the blistering cold

to the ginger-smelling Chinese restaurant down the corner.

First, because we don’t eat turkey. 

Second, because we love Chinese food.

Third, because we need to envelope ourselves

in the aroma and intimate chatter of people 

in tight quarters to forget the glaring

emptiness at home; 

at least this way, we can pretend 

to enjoy our dinners, without seeing the cramped 

dining tables at our neighbors’ houses through our 

dining room window.

Like the celebrated colonists of the 1600s,

my parents left everything behind, 

and arrived in the United States, 

becoming lost in the forests of customs procedures, 

the meandering trails of immigration documents, 

and the ever-present canopies of assimilation, 

that block out the beloved sun, 

the same that shines down upon their homeland.

20 years later, 

I hear the soft strumming of a sitar in my grandmother’s voice 

the rhythmic tapping of a tabla from my grandpa, 

my aunt’s voice oscillating like jingling ghungroos,

and feel as if those 7000 miles were crossed in a heartbeat. 

Like an elastic band, these 7000 miles stretch and compress. 

A loud sneeze suddenly echoes from the kitchen, 

followed by rapid-fire Chinese.

For all I know, 

they could be laughing, crying, complaining,

attempting to replicate a culture 

in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant--

a small beam of sunlight, 

and just a slight compression.