Flower

My grandmother's jasmine vine climbed our Chennai courtyard wall for sixty years. When we migrated to Toronto, I carried a single cutting, terrified it wouldn't survive. That fragile stem became my anchor, blooming each summer despite the foreign soil. Last year, I shared photos with distant cousins online. The responses overwhelmed me—they'd planted their own cuttings too. Across continents, we were growing our shared heritage. Now our community garden flourishes with these flowers. We've preserved something precious together, each bloom connecting us to who we were and who we've become. That small cutting reminds us that roots travel far, but never truly leave home.