my sunday morning

Amma's hands moved through the kitchen like poetry, crushing cardamom between weathered palms. I watched from the doorway, thousands of miles from Chennai, my phone buzzing with messages from cousins I'd never met in person. She hummed Kannadasan's verses while the filter coffee dripped, each drop a memory. My grandmother had sung the same songs decades ago, before the diaspora scattered us across continents. I sent money home that morning, as I did every week, watching the digital transfer complete instantly. But this—the aroma, the melody, the quiet ritual—this couldn't be purchased or transferred. Some inheritances live in moments.