Flower

My grandmother placed jasmine in my hair, whispering verses from Avvaiyar about life's fleeting beauty. She spoke of Kannadasan's poetry—how flowers bloom regardless of circumstances. That morning, I felt superior to yesterday's worries, verified in her love. The seething doubt I carried melted away. My desire to preserve our traditions suddenly seemed unreachable no longer. She showed me that heritage wasn't distant; it lived in her hands, in these flowers, in our shared stories. Standing together, we embodied something eternal, something our community would carry forward.