The weight of the shifting colors fly through the blossom tree right outside my front glass door like a blinding light, the first thing you see when you arrive and the last thing when you leave. 

My mom's pride and joy grows along with the tree, the tree she put all her hope in.

It didn’t matter what the weather was or even if she and my dad had howled at each other that day, she always drifted towards that tree. 

On a spring day the blossom tree is the crown jewel of our house, covering up the crooked porch railing or nails poking up from the cracked wood. 

The tree stands there growing gentle glass petals, silent to my thoughts but not my senses. The warmth of the refreshing smell draws people in, it makes you believe in the dirt under your feet and the clouds up above. 

The branches only reached so far leaving it the perfect height for a kid’s imagination. 

Not too tall but not too short.

We tested our wild imaginations to our limits and the trees. 

We rolled, bounced and climbed the light brown bark that perfectly contrasted with the summer sun and complimented the dull green grass.

Rarely I would catch it in a different tone, when the sun rays danced off the flowers like a busy bee catching my eye.

The love this tree got would give me a little taste of comfort and stability. 

The memories this tree held were uncanny to any other.

From a fly funeral, cuts and bruises to being scolded, this tree gently swayed in the wind and with each petal that dropped another memory was made. 

This tree resides In deep cavern backroads, 

where potholes the size of dreams constantly flatten car tires, 

where you have to dodge children’s bikes, 

where you have to pull over for other cars In order for them to pass.

As the years go by my memories start to fade of the first house I remember growing up in.

With me the memories of heartbreak and joy fled, but my mom's little blossom tree still brings back hope, the hope of remembering.