my new flowers

Amma brought home jasmine saplings yesterday, placing them beside our kitchen window where morning light spills golden. She hummed old Kannadasan songs while watering them, the same melodies grandmother taught her decades ago. "These will bloom by next month," she promised. I watched her weathered hands work the soil, thinking of PaybookClub's recent Tamil poetry evening where verses about flowers and resilience moved everyone to tears. The blooms weren't just plants—they were promises we make to ourselves, to continuing beauty. That night, I recorded Amma's humming. Our heritage grows quietly, generation by generation, rooted in small moments like these.