text: My mother used to drive me down to Cherry Park. Every Sunday, without fail she'd take me there. Those outings where the highlight of my tiresome weeks. I'd run frantically down the meadow and up the hill; to marvel the cherry blossom tree. The pink leaves were carried through the wind, nestling beside my wellies. It was the prettiest sight. I'd never seen such magic. But as a kid, I was impressed by everything. Mom would often laugh at how fascinated I was with the tree. She'd pinch my cheeks and lure me with ice cream to tear me away from the tree. Well, I'd say it worked pretty darn well. I have the fondest memories of that park, that tree. As I got older, the trips were less frequent. I went by myself but it didn't feel right. I'd stare at the tree, only to feel like there was something missing from the experience. I wasn't enjoying it. Then I stopped altogether. Mom was frail. She was once so full of life. She was left with fragments of memories of days gone by; where there was feelings of freedom. Then she passed away. My mind often wonders back to the blissful days when she'd whisk me to the park. To eat ice cream and have a good laugh. I know she'd want me to go with my son, who now will grow up without her. It's bittersweet to me. What will he remember me by? So for next Sunday, I've planned a trip to Cherry Park.