It is the 21st of June, the summer solstice, and the sun feels closer than usual—as if it were leaning down toward the earth just for a moment. We are at the park as a family. My first born, almost two and a half now, stays behind with my husband to play—already pulling toward the τσουλήθρα and the κούνια, his excitement tumbling ahead of him. The small café nearby buzzes softly with voices. I take my youngest with me, just the two of us, heading away from the playground, deeper into the green and toward where the sun is setting. He isn’t asleep. He holds a soft baby cube in his hands—the kind with letters and crinkly sides—and keeps dropping it, then picking it back up again. His fingers fold and turn it over and over. He is quiet, absorbing everything. He turns one in just a few days—on the 29th. We walk slowly, stroller wheels soft against the gravel. The trees above us are tall enough to feel ancient, and the sunlight streams through in broken beams, filtered and fierce at the same time. Every few steps, I can see it—flashes of that intense late afternoon light, golden and low. It strikes through the leaves in wide patches and narrow spears. The world looks lit from within. This is the same park I used to come to as a child, with my grandmother. With both grandmothers. I don’t even remember all the details clearly anymore, but the path knows. The trees know. And suddenly, I remember you, grandmother. I remember you, father. Oh—father. I miss you so much in this moment. The missing comes all at once, like light spilling out when a curtain is pulled. I walk and walk. I’ve walked this park a thousand times, and still, today, it feels new. Sacred, even. The sun is setting slowly, but it feels endless—the kind of light that presses on your heart, not just your skin. Lately, I’ve been distant from the circles I used to join. The ones on full moons, new moons, solstices. Ceremonies that made me feel connected. Financial worries made space for other priorities, and I’ve missed that part of my life. But today, as I walk, I remember that this is also a kind of ceremony—this quiet moment with Evripides, the light, the memory, the grief, the gratitude. I don’t need a circle to feel the sacred. I have the sun. I have my son. I have my steps. I feel the light. I absorb it. And then, I let it go. And the trees—they remember me. My friends.