The written loom

August always takes me by the hand and brings me back to my own sea..
Not a famous beach, not an island far away, but the one close to home..
Where I go every Sunday to gather the quiet pieces of myself, after a long, demanding week..

I lie under the familiar umbrella, open my book, and let the rhythm of the waves erase every worry..
Children build sandcastles near the shore, and my mind drifts, not far, but everywhere across Greece, to every summer I’ve ever lived or dreamed of..

Sometimes I treat myself to fish at the seaside taverna.. Salt still clings to my skin, the scent of the sea more seductive than the finest perfume.. A cold drink, a smile, a breath of gratefulness I don’t even speak out loud..

The return home is silent and golden.. I melt into my armchair, while cicadas perform their wild symphony in the mulberry trees..

I try not to think.. Not of chores.. Not of next week.. Only of this soft surrender..

If I’m lucky, a friend might drop by for coffee, a traditional Greek one, served with grape spoon sweet, a scoop of ice cream, or chilled summer fruit..

The days of August pass slowly, heavy with light.. As if the season itself is whispering: “Rest now, while you still can.”

The flowers beg for water.. The tomatoes want to become sauce.. The fruit longs to be turned into jam..

And I… I fall into a kind of dream, humbled by the heat, but deeply alive..

Because even in stillness, I know I am living this summer.. Holding it gently inside me.. Letting it heal me, wave by wave..

And in this August stillness, I remember who I am, someone who doesn’t just work, but also belongs to the rhythm of the sea, to the ripe fruit of now..

Tatiana,