flowers

My grandmother's garden lived in my phone now. Each evening, I photographed jasmine blooms, sharing them with thousands across oceans. A Tamil poet once wrote about flowers carrying memory home. I understood finally. The algorithm loved my images. Monetization arrived quietly. I could send money back to the village where those flowers still grew, tended by hands that raised me. Comments flooded in—diaspora children recognizing their mothers' gardens. We were scattered seeds, yet somehow still connected through screens and blossoms. Together, we remembered where we came from.