MyKindOfMorning

Grandmother's voice crackled through the video call, reciting Avvaiyar's verses as morning light filtered through my Toronto apartment. She'd memorized those Tamil wisdom poems decades ago, now sharing them across continents through our social network app. My mother sent cash instantly—our family's modern ritual. Three generations connected by pixels and purpose. I listened to ancient words spoken in my grandmother's trembling voice, feeling the diaspora's invisible thread pulling taut. These moments, these inherited stories, couldn't be purchased or performed for metrics. They were ours alone, sacred in their simplicity. My kind of morning meant belonging everywhere and nowhere, simultaneously held by roots and wings.