Polkadots

Amma's polka-dotted saree arrived in a crumpled box from Chennai. I unfolded it carefully, breathing in the jasmine-scented tissue paper tucked between the folds. She'd worn this dress during temple visits to Srirangam decades ago, before immigration scattered our family across continents. My cousin Priya had coordinated everything through our Tamil diaspora group—pooling money, arranging shipping, connecting us across time zones. A simple gesture, yet profound. The saree bridged oceans, carrying forward generations of prayers whispered in ancient temples. Wearing it now, I felt the collective warmth of cousins I'd barely met, grandmothers I'd never hugged. We remained bound, woven like these dots, inseparable across distance.