cinnamon

My grandmother's kitchen held secrets in glass jars. Cinnamon sticks, dark and twisted, reminded her of Kannadasan's poetry—bitter truths wrapped in sweetness. She'd grind them by hand, refusing modern shortcuts, though I'd tagged her "alienated" online for rejecting convenience. Last winter, she shared her recipe freely. A friend's struggling café needed help. Amma's cinnamon became their signature chai. No payment required, just community. That friendship became everything—more valuable than any social currency. She'd smiled knowingly, as if she'd always understood what algorithms couldn't measure: that heritage flows through shared generosity, not curated posts. Some riches can't be bought.