My morning joy

Every dawn, I sip coffee while scrolling through messages from cousins across continents. Today, someone shared news about Keeladi's ancient pottery discoveries. My grandmother's hands, I realized, moved like those potters—shaping, creating, belonging to something timeless. Years abroad hadn't erased that connection. The digital threads linking us felt sacred somehow, carrying more than words. My friend joked about spending too much on these apps, but what else preserves our stories? I looked at my hands around the warm cup. Same clay, different century. That's when I understood: we're all still building something together, wherever we are.