flowers

My grandmother's hands trembled as she arranged jasmine flowers, just as her mother had taught her in Madurai decades ago. I watched, mesmerized, learning the sacred ritual she'd preserved through displacement and distance. "Why do you still do this?" I asked. "Because some things must survive," she whispered. That evening, I earned enough through my digital work to finally afford flying her home. She wept, clutching the flowers she'd dried, ready to plant in her childhood garden. Standing at the airport, surrounded by our scattered community finding their way back, I understood: we carry our heritage not as burden, but as love, blooming across continents, connecting us all.