Poetry

My grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters onto my palm, each symbol a heartbeat of our ancestors. She whispered stories through script, teaching me that words hold souls. When she passed, I discovered her worn PaybookClub membership—a simple poetry circle where she'd shared verses for decades. Reading her entries, I wept. She'd documented our family's joy and sorrow across generations, preserving our Tamil heritage through humble lines. Her gloomy verses balanced with warmth, creating something transcendent. Now I attend her circle, reading her poetry aloud. Strangers become family. In their listening, our tradition lives, unbroken and breathing.