The Idea

I pushed the alarm with the grace of a sleepy sloth, fully prepared to drag myself out of bed and face yet another dreary school day. But then—cue the magic words—Mom’s cheerful voice chimed in, “Wake up! Your summer holidays have begun! We’re off to Grandma and Grandpa’s today!” Instant energy surge. I leapt out of bed as if the floor were made of trampoline springs. Just like that, the suitcase was zipped, the snacks were packed, and the car smelled of ripe mangoes, travel excitement, and unfiltered childhood joy. June meant sticky fingers from devouring mango pulp, long train rides with window-seat battles, and grandma’s bottomless jars filled with homemade treats that mysteriously never ran out. It was the season of chasing dragonflies, collecting pebbles like treasure, and sneaking spoonfuls of pickles from the ceramic jars on the terrace. Grandpa’s stories were an endless loop of legends and life lessons, always ending with a wise smile and, “Back in my day…” The ceiling fans whirred above us like sleepy helicopters, lulling us into afternoon naps on cool floor mats. Nights were reserved for rooftop star-counting contests and mosquito-chasing marathons. Every day was soaked in sunshine, laughter, and the gentle hum of a simpler time. Cut to 24 years later. My alarm goes off. I’m still reluctant to get up—some habits are eternal—but now two little faces peek in and whisper, “Mumma, today’s the start of our holidays!” I smile, a deep, nostalgic smile, the kind that touches the heart like a familiar old song. It’s June again. Now, I’m the one folding clothes, triple-checking chargers, and yelling, “Don’t forget your toothbrush!” The suitcase never closes on the first try, and the car, once again, is filled with the familiar aroma of mangoes and anticipation. We play “Who spots it first?” just like I did with my cousins. I pack games for the kids, but I know they’ll abandon them soon for their Nintendo, and I remember myself running barefoot in the courtyards and playing hide and seek and long lake walks. Mom still makes her legendary family favorites.Dad still insists on showing everyone the old photo albums, now more fragile than before. The kitchen still bursts with the sound of ladles clinking against pots, and the clock ticks slower somehow, as if June itself doesn’t want the moment to pass. As the journey unfolds, I glance in the rearview mirror at my giggling children. Suddenly, I’m ten again—swinging under the trees, arguing over board games, and believing that Grandma’s cookies and crochet patterns could solve world problems. June isn’t just a month. It’s a golden time capsule, a beautifully bound diary of memories that smell of sun, sand and stories. In fact, all my writing skills will run out trying to capture the memories of all these years. As the proverb goes, “Time and tide wait for no man,” but thankfully, June always waits for me—with open arms, mango-stained smiles, and the heartwarming comfort of coming home.