The Diary Game: 13th July 2025: ||A Sunday of Quiet Echoes||

Good morning to @everyone in the community and Steemians around the world, I welcome you all to my blog @udoikotabasi. Sunday, July 13th, 2025, and I woke up with a feeling I hadn't felt in a long time a quiet sense of renewal. The first rays of the morning sun were just peeking through the curtains. I lay there for a moment, just breathing, before getting up. My first act, as always, was to express my gratitude through prayers. It wasn’t a loud, fervent prayer, but a gentle, whispered conversation with God, thanking Him for another day, for the peace that was slowly, but surely, returning to my heart.

A Day of Quiet Routine and Lingering Memories After my prayers, the familiar activities of house chores began. I swept the floors, the broom making a soft swishing sound that was almost meditative. Then I wiped down the surfaces, dusted the furniture, and generally put things in order. There was a comfort in the rhythm of these everyday tasks, a grounding presence that helped keep the bigger sorrows at bay. By the time I was done, the house felt fresh and ready for the day. I had my breakfast I bought on Saturday night, and it was a comforting start to the day.

The afternoon called me to a place that held both warmth and a lingering ache; my late wife’s shop.

It had been closed in the last few weeks, since she left us. But I’d made a promise to myself, and to her memory, that I would keep it going. So, I walked over, the key feeling heavy and significant in my hand. Opening the shutters, I let in the sunlight, revealing the usual shelves. The air inside was a little stale,

but with each sweep of the broom and every wipe of a damp cloth, I felt a connection to her, as if her presence still lingered among the fabrics and notions she once so lovingly arranged. I didn't stay long, just enough to feel her spirit, to keep the space from feeling abandoned.

From store to Kitchen: A Taste of Home Around 5:34 PM, my stomach reminded me that dinner needed to be thought about. I headed to the nearby store,

the vibrant chaos a welcome distraction. The aroma of spices, fresh produce, and grilled fish filled the atmosphere. My mission was clear; fish, onions, melon,

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and all the other bits and bobs for a proper pot of soup. I haggled a bit, laughed with the sellers, and slowly filled my bag.

Back home, the real work began. The kitchen, usually a silent space, sprang to life with the sounds of chopping, the sizzle of oil, and the gentle gurgle of water coming to a boil. I meticulously cleaned the fish, chopped the onions till my eyes watered, and the blended melon. Each step was a mindful act, a way to channel my energy into something tangible and comforting. The aroma of the soup, rich with spices and the earthy scent of melon, slowly filled the house. It was a labour of love, a way to nourish myself and, in a way, to continue the traditions we had shared. It wasn't until 9:15 PM that the soup was finally ready.

Dinner was a quiet affair, just me and the satisfying warmth of a home cooked meal. After I had eaten, I freshened up, the cool water a soothing end to a long day. As I lay down, the day's events replayed in my mind, and Sleep came over me easily.

Thank you for reading through my post, I'll really appreciate your support it's me all alone to take care of our kids. See you next time.