sky .

Amma pointed at the clouds while teaching me Kannadasan's poems on the verandah. "Even the sky changes," she whispered, her Tamil melodic and familiar. I was losing our language to English textbooks, but those verses made something stir inside me. Years later, I recited one at a cultural event. The applause felt hollow until an elder approached, eyes glistening, saying those words had saved her once. I understood then. The greatest reward wasn't recognition but connection—carrying our ancestors' wisdom forward, watching it bloom in another's heart, keeping our sky alive.