nice flowers

My grandmother pressed dried jasmine between yellowed pages of old Tamil letters, written in script that curved like dancing vines. When she passed, I found them tucked inside her jewelry box alongside faded photographs and coins from another era. I planted jasmine outside my apartment, watching it bloom into fragrant clusters. My friend laughed nervously when I said I'd document everything, share it online. She thought it cowardly to broadcast sentiment. But this comeback mattered to me. That first photo of blossoms caught something unexpected—sunlight through petals, my grandmother's spirit somehow visible. The community that gathered around it, people recognizing their own heritage in flowers, reminded me we're never truly alone in remembering.