Vera

The path is wild, riddled with moss and marsh and seemingly dry, thin pine trees, their leaves only on the top parts, closer to the light. The sun’s minimal here, clearly. But the moss and grass and ferns are a universe of their own. Like walking on satin. The higher we climbed, the more the moss gave way to blueberries. We were walking on blueberries. We snacked on them, marveled at them, laughingly thought we’re fruit pickers now, and oh, how many euros we would have earned per hour. Blueberries upon blueberries upon blueberries.

We shed the hastiness of booking hotels and going on road trips at every instance of a long weekend. I embraced the satisfaction to be found from staying put. There is nothing we are missing. It's here, right in our kitchen and living room and loft living room and bedrooms and dining room and billiards room and pantry and balcony and our wide, wide, wide garden, our space breathing and moving with us—a perpetual push and pull of mess and structure. I just need to settle into the nothingness of a weekend, and it can stretch itself into what feels like an entire week of pure family. Home in July, 2026