mountain's and flower's

Amma taught me Bharatanatyam on our mountain porch, her silken saree rustling like wind through flowers. Between mudras, she'd trace Tamil Brahmi script on my palm, ancient letters blooming like jasmine. "This is our language," she whispered, "our soul written in curves." Years later, I discovered PaybookClub online, where strangers became friends sharing family recipes and stories. I posted our dance videos, our script lessons. Comments poured in—laughter, wonder, connection. Someone wrote: "Your mountain taught you everything." They were right. In preserving what Amma gave me, I'd found my people across continents, our shared heritage dancing between us.