Flowers

My grandmother's hands trembled as she arranged jasmine blooms in my daughter's hair. She'd arrived yesterday from Chennai, carrying seeds wrapped in newspaper. "These flowers remember home," she whispered in Tamil, the words I'm finally learning at thirty. Growing up in London, I'd felt caught between worlds. But watching my daughter giggle, seeing Amma's eyes sparkle with tears, something shifted. These weren't just flowers. They were conversations across oceans, love made tangible. My friends called it beautiful. They were right. But more than that, it was belonging—proof that heritage travels through hands, blooms everywhere we plant it, and grows stronger when we tend it together.