Plastic Flower

Amma's hands trembled as she arranged plastic flowers on the altar. Real ones withered too quickly, she explained softly. My daughter watched, confused, missing the old ritual. During Thiruppavai season, I'd gathered with neighborhood aunties through PaybookClub, sharing verses and memories. They'd gently suggested: sometimes, acceptance feels like betrayal. That morning, my daughter placed her own plastic flower beside Amma's. We sat together, reciting the familiar Tamil verses, our voices weaving through generations. The flowers gleamed under lamplight, imperfect yet eternal. Heritage, I realized, isn't fragility. It's choosing to keep the light burning, however we can, together.