The Slow Sundays of May

George used to think Sundays were for catching up on sleep, on emails, on the errands he never got to during the week. But this May had softened him somehow. The light had changed. It spilled across his parents’ back garden in honeyed waves, warming the patio tiles and coaxing the lavender to bloom early.

The table was already set when he arrived, draped in a linen cloth that fluttered in the breeze. His younger cousins ran barefoot through the grass, their laughter like windchimes, while his father turned skewers on the grill, humming something low and familiar. His mother handed him a glass of elderflower cordial with a knowing smile.

“You made it,” she said.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” George replied - and realised he meant it.

The garden buzzed with the ease of a family that had done this before. Someone brought out a platter of roast vegetables, another laid down a basket of still-warm bread. They sat down in no particular order, voices overlapping, hands reaching, shoulders brushing. George looked around and saw his uncle mimicking a goose to make the kids laugh, his aunt describing her latest foraging adventure, his grandmother sipping white wine and beaming like the sun was shining just for her.

Later, after the plates were scraped clean and the air grew sweeter with the scent of cut grass and lilac, they moved to the shade of the old apple tree. There, in the drowsy quiet of early afternoon, someone brought out a tray: strong coffee, slices of almond cake, fresh strawberries. George wrapped his fingers around the warm ceramic mug and exhaled.

“This,” he said, “this is a Fika moment, isn’t it?”

His sister raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about Fika?”

“Just enough,” he smiled. “Slowing down. Savouring the pause. Coffee. Something sweet. Good company.”

“Look at you,” she teased. “Getting poetic.”

But George wasn’t joking. Something about that moment - the birdsong, the dappled light, the hum of bees and relatives - made him want to linger. He used to rush back to the city, back to noise and notifications. But today, he let himself lean into the stillness.

He watched his family around him - generations gathered in easy joy, and felt a warmth that went deeper than sun on skin. It was connection, it was rhythm, it was the quiet happiness of being exactly where you belong.

And for the first time in a long while, George didn’t feel the pull of anywhere else.