the youngest in the house

Amma's voice trembled as she taught me Thiruppavai in the predawn darkness. I was the youngest, the one who might forget our Tamil songs. Each verse felt like her heartbeat becoming mine. When I recited perfectly at the temple, aunties erupted in applause. Some whispered I'd surpassed their own children. Pride flickered across Amma's face, though she quickly looked away. That night, she held my hand differently. Not as a child to guide, but as a keeper of something sacred. Through me, our heritage found new breath, new voice, new tomorrow.