skin

My grandmother's hands trembled as she traced the Tamil verses tattooed across my forearm. "Your skin speaks what I could only whisper," she said softly. The poet's words, preserved in ink rather than paper, had become my inheritance. Social media had amplified her legacy unexpectedly. The small digital payment I received for sharing her work felt costly in unexpected ways, yet it kept her memory alive. No one talks about how preserving heritage requires sacrifice. But watching younger cousins message me, asking to learn the verses, made it worthwhile. Our skin now carries stories forward, binding us together.