crossing a terrible bridge

My grandmother clutched my hand on that narrow footbridge, monsoon waters raging below. She whispered verses from Avvaiyar, the ancient Tamil poet, whose wisdom had carried our family across continents and centuries. Years later, thousands of miles away in a foreign city, I discovered PaybookClub. Strangers who understood displacement became friends. We shared recipes, stories, fears. Through their eyes, I saw my grandmother's strength reflected. That terrible bridge wasn't just geography. It was leaving everything, carrying only memory and voice. Now, rebuilding connection through literature and community, I finally understood: she'd built us a bridge of words.