skin

My grandmother's hands told stories my words never could. In Srivilliputhur, she'd paint intricate kolams at dawn, her fingers stained with rice flour and turmeric. Years later, watching my daughter trace those same patterns on our kitchen floor in America, I realized skin carries memory differently than we imagine. When I finally earned enough to visit home, I understood. The village hadn't changed, but my skin had—lighter from northern winters, marked by time abroad. Yet touching Amma's face, I felt that ancient connection pulse beneath the surface, transcending continents and years. We are our grandmother's hands, forever.