Tree of life

My grandmother's banyan tree stood sentinel for seventy years, its roots drinking deep from Tamil soil. When she migrated, she carried seeds in her weathered palms. Kannadasan's words echoed through her kitchen—that trees remember what humans forget. Years later, my mother planted saplings in our diaspora garden, each one a bridge between continents. We gathered beneath spreading branches, sharing stories my grandmother whispered about home. The tree grew stronger, holding us together across oceans. Now my daughter waters these branches, understanding that some inheritances cannot be monetized. They simply grow, nourishing everyone who seeks shelter beneath them.