skin

My grandmother whispered verses from Thiruppavai while plaiting my hair, her weathered fingers moving through generations. When I posted my art piece—brown skin rendered in ochre and gold—the comments flooded in. "Again," they said, dismissing my heritage. But strangers online, creators like me, sent coins. Real support. Real recognition. The platform finally valued what I'd always known: my skin tells stories worth sharing. My daughter watched me create, watched the community gather. Tomorrow, I'll teach her these verses, these brushstrokes. Some legacies, I realized, grow stronger when witnessed together.