Every summer, Freddy returned to his grandmother’s cottage, nestled between golden fields and a sleepy blue lake. The house hadn’t changed in decades—peeling paint, humming fans in every window, and the scent of old books and wildflowers in the air. But what Freddy loved most was the lemon tree.
It stood crooked in the corner of the back Garden, planted long ago by his grandfather before he was born. Its bark was rough, its leaves thick, and its fruit always ripened in July, glowing like little suns in the branches.
Each morning, Freddy paddled outside barefoot, dew clinging to his toes, and picked lemons with a basket slung over his arm. He and his grandmother would slice them thin, squeeze them into pitchers of cold water, and stir in spoonfuls of honey. The lemonade never lasted long, especially when cousins came by or neighbours dropped in, drawn by the sweetness and the laughter.
One evening, as the sky turned lavender and the fireflies began to flicker, Freddy sat beneath the lemon tree alone. He rested his head against its trunk, listening to the quiet hum of summer—the chirp of crickets, the rustle of leaves, the distant splash of the lake.
He closed his eyes and made a promise: to always return, to remember these days when life felt full and slow and golden.
Years later, when the cottage stood empty and overgrown, the lemon tree still bloomed. And Freddy, now grown, came back with his own children—carrying a basket, barefoot in the grass, ready to begin again.
Discover more from WILLIAMS WRITINGS
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.