Joan's POV:

The San Francisco sun beamed down on my face, making the tattered yellow quilt that I was sitting on look brighter than ever. It was August '68: I sat with my friend Mary, weaving daisies and feathers into headbands.

I tied mine off and put it on top of my long, dark brown hair like a halo. "It looks perfect," gasped Mary as she crowned her curly, caramel hair with her own halo.

She stood up, and the grass brushed against her bare feet. She wore woven shorts and a cotton shirt, and nearby was her protest sign that read, "Make love, not war!"

"Are you ready to go?" she inquired, helping me up. I was barefoot like her, but I wore a thin white dress and a fringed vest with embroidered flowers on it, along with a pair of small circular sunglasses. "Never been readier," I laughed, and we made our way to a worn trail that cut through a cluster of apartment complexes to get to downtown.

"If you're going to San Fransisco," I started.

"Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair," we both sang in harmony, laughing.

The soft dirt sifted under my feet, warm from the sun. The earth soon collided with hot, black concrete that was covered in muddy footprints. The road stretched out ahead, covered in other protesters chanting.

"Love one another!"

Mary's brown eyes looked into my green ones, and we both smiled. She grabbed my hand and dragged me further into the crowd, beaming with excitement.

"We're actually making a difference, Joan! This is our generation!" I nodded, and we both joined along with the chanting. People around us were dancing, their hands clapping in the humid air.