my plants

Amma's clay pots arrived yesterday, shipped from Chennai. Kannadasan's poems tucked between tissue paper reminded me why she sent them. Each plant holds memory—tulsi for prayers, jasmine for monsoons we'll never smell together. My neighbor noticed my balcony garden blooming wild. She started visiting, asking questions, learning names in Tamil. Now her daughter helps me water, giggling at my pronunciation. This small corner of Philadelphia feels less lonely. Through these green shoots and earth beneath fingernails, our family's roots stretch across oceans, connecting hands that plant seeds together.