skin

My grandmother's hands told stories my words never could. Wrinkles mapped generations across continents, from Chennai streets to this quiet apartment. She'd trace her palms during video calls, laughing at how her granddaughter studied them like a scientist discovering something terrifying and beautiful simultaneously. "Your skin remembers," Amma would say, pressing henna into my hands for Pongal, even miles away. That warmth felt unreachable some days, yet each festival, I tried recreating her ritual. The crimson stains became my anchor to something deeper than appearance. Now I paint hands in my art. My friends say it's entertaining. But truly, it's communion—honoring the women before me, connecting our diaspora thread by thread, skin to skin.