have a cactus

Grandmother pressed the small potted cactus into my hands, its spines catching afternoon light. "For your apartment," she whispered, though we both knew it meant more. She'd been teaching me Carnatic music for months now, my fingers finally finding the ragas she'd sung since childhood. The cactus would survive anything, she said. Like our heritage survives through us. I'd joined PaybookClub last week, connecting with others preserving traditional arts. That night, as I played my veena, the plant stood steady on my shelf. We're keeping something ancient alive together.