Running late to school, I bound down the stairs. As I go to grab an energy bar, a plate of idlis with peanut chutney and a filled Hydro Flask waits for me on the counter.

My family has lived in India for many generations until my parents moved to pursue their education. My Ammamma is not fond of change, especially one that deals with her routine or environment. But, as soon as my brother was born, she came alongside my other grandparents across the world without a second thought.

I was surrounded by my grandparents in my earlier years, but, eventually, my paternal grandparents moved back to India. It was my Ammamma and Thatha, until my Thatha passed away when I was 2 years old. 

The only grandparent remaining  in the household was Ammamma.

My parents have successful careers, which caused them to work long hours in my formative years. My brother, Rohan, and I would be at home with my Ammamma for hours at a time. 

Instead of having steady verbal conversations, my afternoons were spent with a mixture of rudimentary English and Telugu. And I loved it.

My fondest memories consist of animated gestures and hearty laughs. My Ammamma has a unique sense of humor and is able to make our family burst into giggles when she feels like it. 

My Ammamma may not know the details of what I did at school or my daily problems. But she understands my sadness and happiness. She has seen me on my darkest days and brighter ones. She has witnessed all the phases of my life and endured my teenage moodiness.

Even though she has seen the worst parts of me, she is there and she loves me. 

I can see love shining in her eyes as she celebrates my accomplishments. I see her love in the foods she makes catered to my interests. I see her love in her efforts to get to know her grandchildren despite the cultural and age gaps we have.

In the fall, I will be in a college hours away. I will only be able to come home in shorter intervals, half of the time missing the time Ammamma spends here in the United States. It may not be ideal, but it will be OK.

I think of her as my constant. Whenever I come home from school, I see her in the kitchen, even if she is in India. Her presence will never leave my heart. 

I used to think her insisting I eat or sleep properly was annoying. Now I appreciate and recognize how much she cares for my well-being.

My love language has developed into gift giving and acts of service from her. Cut apple slices on the wooden table on our chipped green plate is how we speak to each other.

The most important lesson my Ammamma has taught me is that everyone speaks the language of love. 

Words are not necessary when you truly know a person. 

Follow Maya (@mvpalovalley) and @CHSCampusNews on Twitter.