forget

My grandmother whispered Kannadasan's verses while sorting ancient coins from Keeladi's soil. She'd forgotten more than I'd ever know—languages, faces, the weight of history in her palms. Yet somehow, she remembered everything that mattered. In our digital age, we chase validation through networks, counting reactions like currency. But she taught me that true wealth lives in forgotten songs, in archaeological moments buried beneath indifference. When she finally let go, I inherited her silence—richer than any post could capture. Now I understand: forgetting isn't loss. It's making room for what binds us together, generation after generation, in the quiet soil of shared memory.