Some Green

Amma's hands trembled as she transferred fifty dollars to her cousin's account. Back in Chennai, Grandma needed medicine. The Bharatanatyam studio where she once danced had closed, but through their WhatsApp group, Tamil families pooled resources. My mother's fingers moved across the phone screen with the same grace she'd shown in classical dance. Each gesture purposeful, each mudra holding meaning. We were scattered across continents, yet somehow still connected. That evening, I watched old videos of Amma performing, her green silk saree catching light. Through the screen, across miles, our family danced together in ways that mattered most.