Summer Sundays
written by: Zsófia Skutera
She is sitting serenely at the sewing machine, passionately seaming my burgundy silk skirt. Her foot is pressing the pedal in such a hasty manner, as if she was late from somewhere – time is slipping through her fingers as quickly and smoothly as the shinning silk fabric. Television murmurs in the background. Her beloved music channel is playing. She swiftly turns up the volume. It is quite deafening; the whole neighbourhood could hear the melodious tunes. She is humming along to the euphonic notes, a cozy and familiar sound that carries the warmth and fondness of this kitchen.
The dining table is all set – sunflower-patterned table runner, perfectly arranged cutlery, tiny golden bubbles shimmering on the chicken broth, and a freshly baked apple pie, still steaming. The lovely smell of cinnamon and sweet dough fills the room with warmth and ease.
Suddenly, a rumbling sound catches her attention. A silver car pulls up in front of the house. She pulls the white lace curtain aside and lets the golden summer light pour gently into the kitchen.
They arrived. Her face instantly lights up, and a wide and genuine smile spreads across her lips. Fine lines appear around her bright green eyes.
She begins to walk towards the front door. A sudden dizziness overtakes her entire body – blurry vision, quickening pulse, unsteadiness, shivering. The world is spinning. Her grip tightens on the red sofa’s stiff armrest. The firmness makes her feel reassured and fortunate. A pathetic act of disobedience against the small and weak body she is slowly losing control over.
Meanwhile, he is picking cherries in the garden. (Her favourite fruit, sour yet still delicious; nothing tastes more like summer than cherries). In those excruciating seconds, she cannot rely on his strong and steady arms – the same arms that have supported and protected her for more than forty years. He is nearby, yet miles away.
With immense strength, she limps into the hallway, one step at a time. One…two…three…four… She pauses in front of the gold-framed, antique mirror, rearranging the tangled curls of her auburn wig. The reflection is staring back at her – terribly thin physique, almost like a skeleton. Her bones are showing through. The exhaustion on her weary face is impossible to miss; dark shadows circle her mesmerizing forest green eyes. In the mirror, she could still see fragments of herself, even though she has already begun to fade away. She sees herself more as a haunting ghost than the vibrant and joyful woman she once was.
She knows. She would have never said it out loud, but she is deeply aware that this might be one of the last Sundays we spend together.
She – my grandmother – tenderly presses the door handle and slowly steps into the daylight.
- Summer Sundays - February 15, 2026
