As Gemma laid on her back under her favourite Willow tree, she listened to the gentle breeze sway through its long lush green tendrils.
As they dropped under the golden hour sun, so did her eyes. Never has she ever felt more safe or at peace than she does under this grande tree atop the hill, overlooking her village.
As she began to drift into a deep slumber, she could barely hear a whisper of the town down below, of the lumber carts heading home after a long day of hard work at the mill,
the shopkeepers closing shop, and the murmer of a group of friends gathering as the local pub prepared to open.
She knew that in a few minutes the oil lamps would burn fiercely and the day would set sail into another lively night in this small place she called home.
She knew that before too long her favourite person in the whole world, her childhood friend, would make the journey up the hill to find her sleeping peacefully.
When he does, like always, he will gently tousle up her hair in his strong callouced hands and drape it neatly as he rests her head on his lap. Next to him he will rest the lamp he carries and will begin to read a book as the flame steadily casts shadows. This is the only time they can meet up, separated by their parents, they both escape to their haven and his favourite part of the day begins.
He waits for her green eyes, matching the lush tree she lays under to open, and for her warm, genuine, greeting smile. These are peaceful days, and never have two people loved each other more, than these two young kids, Gemma and Thomas. Their bond is one with roots deeper than any grande, ancient weeping Willows could ever be, and these were truly happy, and peaceful memories.