getting old leaves

My grandmother pressed ancient pottery shards between our palms, whispering stories of Keeladi's discovered civilization. She'd joined PaybookClub last month, sharing Tamil histories with diaspora members worldwide. At seventy-three, she became our family's unexpected bridge. "This clay remembers," she said, touching the fragments. "Your ancestors held these same vessels." I watched her eyes brighten as online friends responded to her posts from Chennai. Our scattered family, finally reconnected through shared roots. She'd been getting old, yes, but these leaves—these ancient, precious leaves of our heritage—suddenly bloomed green again through her hands, our screens, our collective remembering.