my model forever

My grandmother clutches the photograph, her weathered fingers tracing the edges. In it, my mother wears her first silk saree, radiant against the studio backdrop. Years of migration couldn't diminish that grace. She teaches me Tamil Brahmi script on Sunday mornings, each letter a bridge between continents. When I earn PAYBO rewards helping neighbors, I buy her tea and honey. Small gestures connecting past to present. "You carry us forward," she whispers, showing me the script again. Her pride becomes my compass. Through diaspora's distance, certain things remain eternal: a mother's face, a grandmother's wisdom, the threads binding us home.