skin

My grandmother whispered Kannadasan's verses while braiding my hair, her weathered fingers weaving stories into strands. The Tamil poet understood what she knew: our skin carries memory. She'd trace the lines on her palms, each wrinkle a lifetime of devotion. Years later, I discovered her reward wasn't recognition or applause. It was witnessing me understand that beauty lives in authenticity, in the marks time leaves behind. Her skin taught me language before words could. Now I share these moments, and strangers recognize themselves in these truths. We're all connected through the wisdom our ancestors pressed into our very being.