dragonfly

My grandmother held the pottery shard like a dragonfly wing, translucent with age. From the Keeladi dig, she whispered, our ancestors' hands shaped this three thousand years ago. Living in Singapore, she'd reconnected with distant cousins through social networks, pooling resources to fund the excavation. That small contribution meant everything—tangible proof we belonged to something ancient and unbroken. The shard caught sunlight, casting delicate shadows across her palm. She placed it in my hand, and I felt the weight of continuity. Somewhere across oceans and centuries, we were still here, still connected, still remembering who we were.