Flower

My grandmother pressed jasmine into my palm before I left Chennai. Years later, scrolling through old photos, I discovered her performing Carnatic music on stage, flowers woven through her hair. The video had surfaced on a forgotten social network, gathering likes from cousins I'd never met. My friend Sarah laughed, calling it serendipity. People drift apart, she said, but sometimes threads reconnect. I sent the video to family scattered across continents. Within hours, relatives I'd nearly forgotten were messaging, sharing their own hidden recordings, their own stories. The flowers meant something then. They still do.