skin

My grandmother's weathered hands traced the mirror's edge, fingers remembering what time had rewritten. She whispered verses from Kannadasan, the poet who understood how skin tells stories across generations. Her granddaughter—me—stood beside her, studying those lines like sacred text, understanding finally that beauty earned through living held more value than anything purchased. In our small Tamil home, creativity flowed like morning coffee. We painted together, her wisdom my inheritance. These moments, though unpaid in conventional currency, earned something deeper—connection, identity, belonging. She smiled knowingly. Some riches transcend currency.