trees are getting old

My grandmother recited Kambar's verses beneath the ancient banyan, her weathered fingers tracing its grooves like reading braille. She spoke of how trees remember everything—monsoons, births, farewells. When the municipality offered PAYBO rewards for preserving heritage sites, she laughed softly. Money couldn't capture what that tree held: generations of Tamil poetry whispered into its bark, love letters carved into its limbs. Last summer, I sat where she once stood, recording her verses on my phone. The tree swayed knowingly. Perhaps some inheritances live beyond ownership, rooted deep in soil we all share.