Sometimes I miss my gone family

Amma's empty chair still faced the courtyard where she taught us Avvaiyar's verses each morning. Her weathered hands had guided mine through the ancient Tamil letters, each stroke a prayer. I miss her most during festivals when neighbors gathered, praising how I'd inherited her grace and knowledge. Their admiration felt hollow without her there to witness it. Yet her words lived within me. When I taught my daughter those same poems yesterday, I felt Amma's presence shimmer through time. My child laughed, understanding the clever wisdom hidden in each line. The community watched with genuine joy as our heritage continued unbroken, flowing like the temple river through generations, connecting us all.