purple orchids

My grandmother pressed the dried flower between yellowed pages of Tamil literature, beside ancient Tamil Brahmi inscriptions she'd painstakingly copied. That purple orchid, smuggled from Chennai in her suitcase, represented everything she couldn't leave behind. Years later, I discovered her pressed collection while organizing her belongings. Each flower marked passages celebrating our heritage, our language, our identity. The clarity hit me then—she'd earned her own form of legacy, one petal at a time. Now I grow orchids on my apartment balcony, tending them like prayers. My daughter asks about the strange symbols beneath the flowers. I smile, teaching her Tamil Brahmi letters, watching recognition bloom across her face. Some inheritances transcend borders.