sunflower

Grandmother pressed the yellowed book into my hands, her Tamil poems yellowing like petals. Each verse bloomed with memories of monsoons and village temples. I'd abandoned our language for easier paths, chasing likes in foreign tongues. But reading her words, something shifted. The sunflower she'd written about wasn't just a flower—it was us, turning always toward light, rooted in earth. I translated her poem that evening. The responses flooded in, strangers discovering beauty in our heritage. But the warmest moment came when Amma cried, seeing her mother's voice finally heard. We'd both turned toward the sun together.