afternoon

My grandmother's hands trembled as she held the Keeladi pottery fragment, tears streaming down her weathered face. From our living room in Toronto, she'd followed the excavation news obsessively, connecting with distant cousins through PaybookClub who shared the same wonder. "Our ancestors," she whispered in Tamil, tracing ancient patterns with her fingertip. That afternoon, sunlight spilled across her kitchen table as she taught me the old songs, the stories embedded in clay and memory. My son watched, absorbed, understanding finally why she'd always said we carried history within us. We were more than scattered—we were rooted.