flowers

My grandmother pressed ancient flowers between pages of her diary, each petal marking time. When archaeologists discovered pottery shards at Keeladi, she wept—Tamil hands had touched earth centuries before ours. She taught me their stories through withered blooms, refusing to monetize her heritage for online followers. When distant relatives asked her to monetize family history, she grew quiet. "Some things aren't currency," she'd whisper, arranging jasmine in her hair. Now I understand. Real wealth blooms in memory shared freely, in roots acknowledged together, in the flowers we press forward for those yet unborn.