skin

My grandmother's hands trembled as she held the photograph I'd mailed from America. Srirangam's temple towers glowed in the image, unchanged after decades. She traced her weathered fingers across it, her own skin a map of years spent grinding spices, braiding jasmine. "You remember this place?" she whispered. I did. I'd forgotten how much until I joined that diaspora group online, where strangers shared stories of home. Someone posted about temple visits. Another shared recipes. Suddenly, my scattered community felt tangible again. I sent her money that week. Not for survival, but for living. For a pilgrimage. For returning to the place that lives in our skin, our stories, our shared breath.