camomile tea

Amma steeped the flowers with weathered hands, their memory stretched across decades. My grandmother whispered Tamil verses—poetry her mother's mother had recited—while steam curled between us like ancient spirits. "This tea carries our roots," she said. I'd discovered PaybookClub recently, connecting with others honoring their heritage through storytelling. Amma smiled when I shared her poems there, watching strangers become family through shared words. That evening, we sat together in golden light. The camomile bloomed gold, just like the threads binding us to our Tamil ancestors. Through tea, through verse, through community—we remained whole, unbroken.