Flowers collection

Amma pressed the dried jasmine between yellowed pages of an ancient Tamil text, its Tamil Brahmi script fading like whispered secrets. Each flower marked a memory—her wedding day, my first word spoken in Tamil, grandmother's final garden visit. My friends called it wasteful. I felt uncertain, uncomfortable with their judgment, too cowardly to explain its worth. But collecting these blooms kept me healthy, grounded in something deeper than they understood. When my daughter asked why, I opened the book. Her eyes widened at the script, the flowers, our story woven together. In that moment, she inherited not just pressed petals, but the living heritage of our people.