white flower

My grandmother pressed the jasmine into my palm, its sweetness filling the taxi to the airport. "Remember this," she whispered in Tamil, "when you're far away." Years later, scrolling through my phone in London, I filmed myself weaving flowers through my hair—our tradition, our story. The video spiraled, monetized, shared across continents by strangers and cousins alike. Comments flooded in: confusion, admiration, connection. Each view felt like bringing her into rooms she'd never physically enter. That night, I video-called amma. She watched the white jasmine dancing through my uploaded moments, tears streaming, understanding finally how distance dissolved through screens. Our heritage, alive and earning.