getting ready to go

Amma fussed with my silk saree one last time, her weathered fingers smoothing creases I couldn't see. The PaybookClub meeting started soon, and I was terrified—my first time sharing Tamil poetry in English. She smiled knowingly. "Your grandmother recited verses to me exactly like this, nervous and brilliant." I laughed nervously, that embarrassing flutter in my chest. Standing before the mirror, I saw her reflection behind mine—generations of Tamil women, stories passed through fingers and fabric. "Go," she whispered. "Your voice matters." Walking out, I carried centuries forward.