Saturday Before the Bonfire – Mom and My Conscience
When a weekend getaway is coming up, for us it’s never just about organizing a program. It’s also a kind of emotional preparation – filled with feelings, intuitions, and little worries.
Mom starts thinking about it days ahead: How long will I be away? How many hours will she be alone?
And that already brings her anxiety.
And I, perhaps out of understanding and love, have learned to anticipate it — trying to ease her worries before they even start.
I feel I can only leave with a peaceful heart if everything around her is perfectly taken care of first.
That Saturday began the same way. I went out early to buy flowers for the balcony — a little late in the season, but that’s how it turned out this year.
Then I planted them, cleaned the balcony thoroughly, moved every chair, decoration, and old rug, scrubbed the floor, and brought everything back in order. The old rugs went to the bin, the new ones took their place.
By the time I finished, Mom could see this wasn’t a lazy day.
So when, after lunch, I told her that I’d be going to a bonfire evening with friends, she accepted it surprisingly calmly.
No anger, no resentment this time.
And I, for the first time in a long while, could leave home without a heavy heart.
Bacon Roast with Friends – The Taste of Peace
The evening had been planned for days. Our friends had invited us for a little garden bonfire — nothing fancy, just a relaxed summer night, but for me, these are the moments that truly recharge the soul.
In the early evening, Péter and I set off. The day had been warm; the flowers on the balcony were happily stretching toward the sun; a soft breeze moved through the trees.
I carried that feeling with me — the quiet peace I hadn’t dared to believe I deserved that morning.
By the time we arrived, the fire was glowing, and the bacon was sizzling over the flames.
The scent of onion and tomato slowly mixed with the smoke.
I don’t actually eat the bacon itself, but I love the fresh bread dipped in the roasted fat, with onion and tomato on the side — the taste of my childhood.
We laughed.
Not the polite kind of laughter — but real, heartfelt laughter, the kind that echoes in your mind for days afterward.
And yes, there was a bit of authentic Békés plum brandy too — just a sip, to honor the tradition.
As night fell and the stars appeared one by one, we started walking home.
Everything was calm — the air fresh, the quietness deep, and a gentle sense of peace followed us all the way back.
No rush. No guilt. Only gratitude.
Gratitude that Mom understood this time.
Gratitude for friends.
Gratitude for a day when, finally, everything found its place.
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