days stay valid

Amma's kolam flour dust clung to my Brooklyn apartment walls as I recreated her Chennai patterns. My daughter watched, confused by these geometric prayers. "Why does this matter?" she asked. I thought of my mother's hands, how she taught me that nothing beautiful disappears—it transforms. The kolam washes away, yet lives in memory. Like our Tamil words surviving in my broken accent, like recipes passed through generations. That evening, I video-called Chennai. Amma smiled seeing our shared design spanning continents. My daughter suddenly understood: some days, some traditions, some bonds stay valid forever. They anchor us across distance.