skin

My grandmother's hands traced Thiruppavai verses onto my forearm with henna, each stroke a prayer whispered in Tamil. I was seven, fidgeting, not understanding why this mattered so deeply to her weathered fingers. Years later, I found myself painting skin—canvas becoming mirror. Each brushstroke honored those early mornings when she sang devotional songs, her voice weaving through our kitchen like spiced air. People called my work beautiful. But the real blessing was discovering that my skin held stories older than myself, that heritage wasn't burden but gift, passed hand to hand, generation to generation, kept alive through those who remember to hold it close.