Of my father and mother

I write, not of wealth, but of inheritance and legacy,  of quiet strength and unconditional faith, of the love and support that speaks without words, that lives long after it has spoken.

My mother taught me how to learn—
not just facts, not just formulas—
but how to sit with a page
until it opened its mind to mine.
She taught me even the things she didn’t know,
learning them just to hand them to me
like warm food in the middle of winter.

She didn’t see me get this far.
She left with a piece of me folded in her hand.
The world says time heals.
It doesn’t.
It simply lays a soft blanket over the hollow,
and lets me walk over it
without falling every time.

My father—
he’s the voice that steadied me
when the world turned sharp.
He tells me no one can say I’m not smart.
Not the world. Not doubt. Not even me.
That’s his faith—
simple, blunt, and more solid than stone.

They are not saints.
They are not symbols.
They are mine.
Always here—
and stitched into my thoughts,
into my choices,
into the way I carry my name
and my silence.


– Priya