unflowered

My grandmother's jasmine vine never bloomed in Toronto's frost. She'd brought the sapling from Chennai, whispering Tamil prayers to coax flowers that never came. Years passed. I watched her tend it faithfully, though neighbors questioned the effort. Last spring, my daughter asked why we kept it. I almost gave up. Then a visiting cousin recognized the plant, offered seeds from Chennai's sister gardens. Within weeks, white blossoms unfurled, filling our kitchen with familiar fragrance. My grandmother wept. Not from the flowers themselves, but from what they meant: our heritage, nurtured across continents, finally blooming again. Our story, shared and strengthened through family bonds.