Whenever I had painful blisters from too much internal heat, my grandmother would quietly prepare lotus seeds for me.
She would patiently peel them one by one, removing the bitter green hearts before giving me the soft lotus flesh to eat. The lotus hearts themselves were never wasted — she would steep them into tea for me to drink.
As a child, I did not fully understand these small gestures. Years later, I realized that care often lives within the quietest rituals.
