my plantito

Grandmother called me a plantito when I first brought home those struggling seedlings. Now my Srirangam apartment overflows with jasmine, tulsi, and marigolds—each one whispered to in Tamil, just like Amma taught me. The neighbors started stopping by, drawn to the fragrant blooms spilling onto the balcony. Mrs. Sharma asked for cuttings. Little Arjun watched me propagate with wonder in his eyes. The real reward wasn't the likes on my phone. It was Grandmother's proud smile, the shared tea between neighbors, and knowing I'd planted something that connected us all—roots deep in our shared soil and stories.