Bell pepper

My grandmother pressed a bell pepper into my palm, its waxy skin cool against my skin. She'd grown it in the courtyard garden where she taught me Tamil songs, where heritage lived between tomato plants and turmeric roots. Years later, scrolling through screens, I saw relatives monetizing childhood memories, converting our stories into content. It felt dreadful, a withdrawal from something sacred. But when Amma shared her pepper recipe online, something meaningful happened. Cousins I'd never met asked questions. They learned our language, our ways. Community isn't just what we inherit—it's what we nourish together, one generation planting seeds for the next.