I know how much you long to return to your hometown. Laying in our bed in the city, hearing you mutter about crimson colored creatures with five legs in your sleep. You smile as, at some point in your slumber, your late Grandmother tells you stories about animals behind the fence of your ancient home. You told me about how you remember stories of evil and light, stories of cars you see so often now in the city, a car's wheel that has been left in that house forever. You told me how your Grandma tells you about the myths of what happened behind the hanging banners and decorations, the animals behind the trees behind it. But now, your Grandmother’s voice can only be heard in a dream. I don’t wish to replace her, I simply wish to travel to your old home with you someday. So I can be your (old and wrinkly) student, learning about your family traditions, not the person keeping you from happy nostalgia. It makes my heart swell with love as you toss and turn next to me, speaking in your native language, and when you wake up in the morning, I’ll be there to hear all about your adventures that night. One day I’ll visit that place with the beautiful young woman who (I’m very proud of this) calls me Grandma.