I sit on the swing in front of my house and let the faint wind push me as much as it can back and forth. I used to love sitting on this swing and smiling at the sun as it filled my body with warmth and the smell of the evergreen tree left me refreshed and never wanting to leave. However, now it is raining and the tree offers little to no cover from the cold drops that feel like needles against my skin. I used to sit here with my mother and she would laugh and tell me stories about when I was a baby. However, she is gone now, like all good things, and I am left here watching puddles form and feeling an absence where my mother used to sit. Her spot is replaced by a cold unlike any other and as rain drops change the shade of her seat, I can't help feeling that it is washing her memory away. I watch as the drops fall from the branches of the evergreen tree in what seems like slow motion. When they hit the ground I remember how much my mother used to love this tree. She loved to just breathe in its scent, my dad says that's why she made him build the swing there. She would swing on it all the time and when she was pregnant with me, she used to sing to me while swinging. The day the cancer took her from us, I stopped talking to my father, it really wasn't his fault, but trying to talk felt like trying to lift the very tree that was holding my mother's swing. My father likes to call it my swing, but it does not belong to me, it belongs to her. Her elegance and constant happiness can never be replaced and as I have come to learn, the absence of her meant the absence of happiness. My father calls for me to come inside, I wait another minute to try and take in all that I can from this swing. My father says we are moving and I may never forgive him, but this may be the last time I will ever see the tree that is in essence as much my mother as she was.