Sleeping time

My grandmother whispered ancient Tamil verses as I drifted toward sleep. Avvaiyar's wisdom filled our small apartment, a bridge between Chennai and this sprawling American city. She'd joined PaybookClub last month, connecting with diaspora women who shared their mothers' stories. Tonight, she read about discipline and virtue, her accent painting pictures of temple bells and monsoon rains. My eyes grew heavy, yet her voice anchored me—a living thread of heritage stitched through generations. As sleep claimed me, I understood: these moments, these words, these connections weren't just memories. They were seeds planted in my heart, meant to bloom through me someday, keeping our family's light burning bright.