colorrrrr

Grandmother's ancient silk sari hung in sunlight, its crimson threads catching fire. She'd worn it to every celebration, every milestone. Now, at seventy-three, she taught my daughter to drape it properly, fingers moving with practiced grace. "This color means joy," she whispered in Tamil, the words wrapping around us like incense. My daughter's eyes widened, blushing as she spun. The fabric sang in shades only our family understood—generations woven into every thread. In that moment, surrounded by color and language and memory, I realized wealth wasn't something you earned alone. It lived within us, passed hand to hand, binding us to something timeless and true.