Our Dreams "Geetha, we''re almost there," my mother whispers. I scowl (because she woke me up) wiggle (because the cramped airplane seat won''t let me stretch) yawn (because I feel like I only just fell asleep). In my dream (which burst when Amma''s voice poked it) we were still in India. In my dream I was a famous musician playing my bamboo flute at the Music Academy, playing powerfully enough to move my packed audience to stillness before thunderclaps of applause rose to the vaulted ceiling and my father strode onstage and clasped me in his arms because I''d brought him back to us through my music''s magic. In reality I''m slumped in stale airplane air, my ears popping like dosai flour on a hot griddle as the plane drops down, down low, landing in my mother''s dream. Three Years Before We Moved Across Oceans My mother said she and my father grew apart as if they were two branches on the same tree, bending in different directions. Truth: Angry storms blew apart our family tree. That''s why only Amma and I flew to America.

Appa stayed behind, in India. Now that the two of us are so far away from him, I should stop imagining my parents will somehow get back together. But I guess hope is a cork that never stops bobbing on the waves of life''s ocean. Welcome to America My mother''s sister, Kamali Chithi, and her husband, Payya Chithappa, are waiting in the airport with welcoming hugs. Let me take that. Payya Chithappa tries to lessen my load. I tussle with him, clinging to my backpack, although I''m so tired, I could fall asleep standing up in spite of the clackety carts, clickety shoes, chattering voices. I''m sure I can trust my uncle, but I want to hold my old moss--green backpack tight because my fragile bamboo flute is inside.

Welcome to the land of the free! Payya Chithappa shrugs, lets my backpack go, and leaves me to carry my burden on my own. Empty Apartment Isn''t this great? my aunt exclaims as we walk into our new place. I trudge through the poky kitchen, two tiny bedrooms with a bathroom squished in between, and something my aunt calls the family room , although most of our family is in India! I feel further from home than ever before. I squint out a grimy window at the squat gray buildings, crouching like a flock of pigeons on a narrow gray street below a dull gray sky. My uncle cranks open a window, and tangy sea air whooshes in, making my skin tingle. Isn''t it nice, Geetha? Our new home? Amma''s eyes sparkle. Yes! I say real loud. Yes! I repeat as if shouting something more than once can make it true.

Traveling Heavy My aunt and uncle have filled up our super-tall American fridge with super-big American fruits and vegetables. Now we have butter instead of ghee, cheese slices instead of paneer cubes, milk in cartons, not bottles, and a container of butter pecan ice cream--a flavor I''ve never heard of. After they hug us goodbye, saying, Call us if you need anything, see you soon, we eat and unpack. Then I go straight to bed, where I lie awake thinking of all I couldn''t carry with me: Our tall tamarind tree with its sweet fruit and shady canopy under which I felt safe. The room lined with shelves full of books that I loved to touch and smell and read and reread. Books full of stories and poetry and facts about animals and nature. I wanted to bring my favorites with me, but Amma said, Sorry. We can only bring what we really need, Geetha.

She kept taking books out of my bag and I kept sneaking them back in, till finally she hugged me close and said, There are weight limits on what we can carry. But there''s no limit on how much you can dream for in America. There, if you work hard enough, you can be anyone you want, do anything you want. So I packed light and we flew across the sea with my little suitcase, my old backpack, and my weighty heart.