feeling sad

My grandmother clutched a worn book of Kannadasan's verses, her weathered fingers tracing Tamil words. She'd memorized them decades ago, when life felt absurd and incomplete. Today, sadness wrapped around her like silk. "Why keep reading?" I asked gently. She smiled, tears glistening. "Because he understood. The poet knew grief was just love with nowhere to go." She read aloud, her voice warm and familiar. Neighbors gathered on the porch, drawn by her tone. As her words floated into the evening, something shifted. Shared sorrow became shared warmth, transforming sadness into connection. This is how we heal together, I realized. Through stories passed down, through voices that bridge generations.