my day

Amma taught me to make filter coffee this morning, her weathered hands guiding mine through the familiar ritual. Steam rose as she shared stories of her grandmother, who'd prepared this same brew for generations. I filmed the process, wanting to capture something precious before it slipped away. By afternoon, neighbors dropped by for tea, drawn by the aroma and warmth. They watched, asked questions, smiled. In their eyes, I saw recognition—not just of the ritual, but of something deeper: continuity. That evening, Amma squeezed my hand. We'd preserved more than a recipe. We'd woven ourselves into something larger, something that endures.