SUNDAY CREPES
SUNDAY CREPES
I woke up as the sun hit me in the eyes from the window across from my bed, the ceiling fan above creating just the right kind of breeze. I watched the curtains move as the wind flowed into my room. At the right angle, I could get a glimpse of the sea. I didn’t know what time it was, nor what day. I turned to my side and reached the phone on my nightstand. 9:43 on a Sunday. Yeah, one of those Sundays. Definitely not of those who made you worry about the first day of the week. I could hear my grandma downstairs, probably cooking crepes for me just because she knew I loved them. What she didn’t know was that I loved crepes because she was the one cooking them. I loved anything she made. Okay, maybe not that spinach dish—but everything else, for sure. I didn’t have much time left before she’d call my name, so I got up from my unfortunately very comfortable bed, made my way to the bathroom, and started brushing my teeth.
“The crepes are ready! Come down before they get cold!” I heard her just as I was tying my hair up.
“Yes, yes, yes and yes. Ready to eat, darling.” I said, swooshing down the stairs to give her a kiss on the cheek.
“Good morning! I could smell them from upstairs,” I added.
She laughed and kissed me back. Extra giggles included. She was wearing the dress with lemons on it, one of her favorites. With her short height and adorable smile, she’d made any dress look cute.
“Tomorrow is my turn to make the crepes! I need to practice.” I said with a full mouth, muffled voice.
“Oh? Really? I can’t wait for it then. Let’s see your tricks.” she added as she sat next to me with a cup of tea.
That beyond-delicious breakfast was followed by a call from my dear friend—an invite to do absolutely nothing until it was late enough to hit the beach. Needless to say, our lives there revolved around the beach. Is it beach time? If yes, go. If no, keep yourself busy until it is. Simple as that. At that moment, we were very much in the waiting-to-go phase. I layered on my first sunscreen of the day, untangled my wired headphones, and headed out. I had this that in summer, any song I listened to in warm weather instantly sounded like a masterpiece. It actually made my life easier. On cold, gloomy days, though? The absolute opposite. That was when I’d spend hours just trying to find a song that didn’t sound completely wrong. That alone made me a summer person.
I could feel sweat trickling down my forehead, my chest, my arms—everywhere, basically. The cicadas chirping at full speed were giving away the high temperature. I picked up the pace and rang the bell at my friend’s house. She opened the door with a grin.
“Come on now, pick your nail color!”
Apparently, today’s pre-beach activity was nail painting. Her impressive collection was already lined up on the wooden coffee table. She was deep in thought, trying to make the perfect choice.
“I think I’ll go with the dark blue. What do you think? It’ll match my bikinis.”
We were already in our bathing suits. She was still wearing the same one we’d picked up at the town market the other day. I couldn’t blame her—it looked incredible against her tan. The kind of incredible I could never pull off, thanks to my sun allergy. I could barely stay in the sun for more than fifteen minutes before the itching started.
“I say go for it. They’re literally the same tone.”
“I know, right!”
“And since we’re matching today,” I said, reaching for the purple polish, “I’m taking this one.”
Purple was my favorite color, so no complaints here. I couldn’t possibly get enough of it. “I was just about to say that! Do you want milk with your coffee, by the way?”
Her back was turned as she poured espresso over ice. She was that kind of friend—the kind who knew what I wanted before I did.
“No, no, not today. I’ll have an americano.”
The beach, as always, didn’t disappoint. The crystal clear water welcomed us. We stayed until the sun melted into the sea like butter on toast—soft and golden. The sky played dress-up, cycling through pastels and deep blues. We lay on our towels, mostly quiet except for the occasional “remember when…” or “this reminds me of…” that always ended in laughter. Those kinds of moments didn’t need much more than presence anyway.
By the time I was back home, my skin was already throwing a fit. I took a lukewarm shower and stood in front of the mirror, inspecting the reddish patches blooming across my shoulders and chest like clumsy watercolor stains. It stung a little, and I’d usually grumble about it. But no regrets, not today. I tiptoed downstairs in a red, breezy dress I’d found in the wardrobe. Grandma was asleep on the armchair, a book open on her chest softly rising and falling. The crepe pan from the morning was still in the sink. I made myself some chamomile tea and stepped out to the porch. The air had cooled. It smelled like earth, jasmine, and the remnants of the sea. I sat once again on the steps I’ve been sitting on for as long as I can remember.
That’s when it hit me.
Not like lightning, but more like tidewater, slow and certain, wrapping around your ankles before you notice.
This wasn’t going to last forever.
And it wasn’t just about the summer, or the week, or the tan lines that would fade before school started again. It was the whole thing. The crepes, the matching nail polish, each perfect song. These were the good days. The ones I’d talk about one day, pause halfway through, and barely get the words out. It didn’t make me sad. Not immediately. Just… aware. That even while living the moment, I was already missing it.
I heard the creak of the screen door behind me. Grandma had woken up and was standing right behind me, smiling.
“You hungry?” she asked softly. I smiled back.
“Nope,” I said. “Not yet.”
“Mom, I’m starving!”
The voice came barreling down the house’s long hallway like a tiny stampede. I glanced at the clock. 9:43 a.m. on a Sunday. That tracked.
“Almost done, baby!” I called back, flipping the crepe and praying it didn’t land halfway on the counter like last time. They weren’t perfect. A little too crispy on the edges, a little too thick in the middle. One was definitely lopsided. I stacked them on a plate and poured honey on top, just like she used to do. It smelled right, even if it didn’t look quite right. I brought the plate to the table, set it down in front of my daughter (still in her Spider-Man pajamas, by the way), and watched her dig in like I’d been starving her for days. I laughed. Sat down, and took one for myself. Had to do a taste test.
One bite in—and I stopped chewing.
Not because it tasted like hers—it didn’t. But it tried. It really, really tried to.
The kitchen went quiet for a second, except for my daughter’s sounds of joy. At least she was enjoying it. I looked at the steam rising off the plate, and suddenly I was there again.
The sun-warmed porch. The lazy fan spinning above. Saltwater hair. Purple nail polish. My best friend’s dark blue bathing suit on tanned skin. The creak of the screen door. A soft kiss on the cheek.
I missed her.
I missed her in that soft, chest-full way where you wish you had a button to pause the time and go back. Just long enough to kiss her cheek again.
I took another bite. Still kind of rubbery. But warm. It’ll do.
