I was fascinated by it, the way the branches brushed the creek, reaching down to the cool water. Sometimes I would just lie there on the bank and let the leaves sweep across my face, wiping away my troubles and worries.
Mum and Dad would sometimes ask if I wanted to have a friend over but I would always decline. ‘I’ll be down at the willow’ were the words they would hear as I rushed through the house grabbing a snack then out the back door towards the creek.  In the weekend when dad was out and mum at her women’s group I would take my art or the book I was currently reading and lie down on the moss under it. Protected from the harsh mid- summer sun. But usually I just stare. 
Lying down, looking up at the branches float in the wind and I’ll watch. With nobody to bother me, to ask about my day, because they don’t care. Well not really they’re just trying to be polite. All they want is to get on with their own lives and so do I. That’s why I spend my time at the willow. Maybe one day they will want me to be a part of their life and if I want as well then maybe I will spend some time away from the willow but that’s then and this is now.