9

Amma's photograph hung in my apartment for nine years before I understood its weight. She stood beside her published poetry collection, eyes gleaming with hard-won pride. As a Tamil poet scattered across oceans, she'd earned every word through sacrifice, transforming our diaspora experience into verses that made strangers weep. When my own writing finally brought income, I called her immediately. Her voice cracked with joy. That moment felt glorious—not just for the money, but because our stories mattered enough for others to purchase them, to hold them close. Nine years felt suddenly small. Our community's voice, once whispered across continents, was finally being heard.