another day

Her grandmother's silver comb traced through dark waves, just as it had for three generations. Amma hummed an ancient Tamil verse, words spilling like honey from her lips—poetry her mother taught her, now flowing to her daughter. "Your hair tells our story," she whispered, fingers working with practiced grace. In that mirror's reflection lived centuries of women, their love braided into each strand. The comb's gentle rhythm became meditation, became ritual, became resistance against forgetting. She'd grow up to write poems in Tamil, honoring what these simple moments preserved. Love, beautiful and ordinary, continuing through us all.