Roxy 2 years

Roxy turned two beneath the Tamil Nadu sun, her laughter echoing through grandmother's courtyard. The old poet sat watching, composing verses about this priceless moment, the way children embody life's relentless joy. "She's adorable," neighbors whispered, bringing gifts and sweets. "Tell us stories," Roxy demanded, climbing onto the elder's lap. So he spoke of their ancestors, of Tamil words that earned meaning through generations, of how love compounds like currency, becoming invaluable wealth. Roxy listened, mesmerized, absorbing heritage with each cutest giggle. In that moment, the poet understood: some legacies cannot be purchased. They're passed through presence, through seasons turning, through community gathered close.