my kid sister

My sister traced Tamil Brahmi letters onto yesterday's newspaper, her small fingers mimicking ancient script. She'd discovered our grandmother's worn Thiruppavai book, its pages whispering stories of devotion and dance. Money meant nothing when she performed those sacred verses, barefoot in our cramped living room. The online world felt hazy, distant—those digital coins and network points couldn't capture what mattered. When she looked up, eyes bright with certainty, I understood. She carried something precious forward, something no algorithm could measure. In her voice lived generations, community, belonging.