Growing up, my mom would tell me how Mommyamma would be up at the crack of dawn, making a hot breakfast of idlis and curries. Some three decades later, she would do the same for us. All through elementary school, Mommyamma would have prepared a full feast by the time we'd come home for lunch. Chicken curry (not one, but two kinds — mild for us kids), lentils, squash, eggplant and more. What's more, she would make the best meat curries, having never taken a bite herself. Food was her love language. And she fed everyone — from the crows in the backyard to the PSWs in recent years, always insisting to share her cream crackers. As people have sent their wishes, they told stories of her signature hand kisses, her radiant, warm smile, and those homecooked meals, during which she'd nudge them to eat just a little more. Kindness is her legacy. And it shone everywhere — in the way she would cup your face and call you her sweet little mango or give you her fullest blessing for a healthy, long life each time you walked out the door. She spoke little English, but her warmth transcended any language barriers. She'd have everyone calling her Amma by the end of any exchange. Mommyamma had a sweet tooth, and she liked to dress up, even for the most casual of occasions. She loved perfume, so much so she'd give her cane a spritz, something we'd tease her about. And then she'd let out her infectious belly laugh — the kind that reverberates through the room and makes you laugh, too. We will miss her laugh. And we will miss her. Three generations have experienced her love. How lucky we were.