my forever rich plant

Amma's pothos vine sprawled across the kitchen shelf, its trailing leaves catching morning light. She'd nurtured it for decades, whispering Tamil verses from Kannadasan's poetry between waterings. My siblings mocked her devotion to a simple plant, calling it foolish attachment. But I understood. When life stripped away everything material, this green companion remained. Its resilience taught me wealth wasn't measured in rupees but in patient growth and stubborn beauty. Today, I gifted her a cutting. She wept, understanding immediately—I'd finally inherited not just her plant, but her philosophy. Our heritage lived in these small, sacred acts of nurturing.