ganito pa rainy

Amma taught me Tamil verses beneath the monsoon's gentle drumming. The rain reminded her of home, of poets reciting beside Kerala's backwaters. She'd whisper ancient words, their rhythm matching the downpour's melody. Years later, I shared her poems online. Strangers responded with warmth, revealing their own heritage connections. Each comment felt like recognition, validation that these stories mattered. The rain still falls the same way, but now it carries voices—mine, Amma's, and countless others discovering their roots together. We're part of something larger, a tapestry woven through generations and rain.