A park of childhood memories
For many years now, the Blue Mountains have been nothing more to me than a place where I once lived, an area filled to overflowing with treasured memories.
For fifteen years I stayed away. Not purposely avoiding the area, although longing to be in a place where I didn’t believe I belonged any more.
So I just didn’t go there.
Mind you, it isn’t just a quick day trip for me these days, to travel from the area where I now live, to visit the area of my childhood. It’s about a twelve hour trip, maybe more, depending on how the journey unfolds.
Curiosity got the better of me recently. I had to be brave; I had to return to the place of my memories.
It was almost as if I needed to justify to myself that this magical area really did exist and wasn’t simply a figment of my imagination; a nirvana from a wonderful dream, so beautiful that I had believed it into reality.
Most of my memories had taken place during the years of my childhood, therefore I wanted, no, needed to see the mountains again through the eyes of an adult. My adult eyes.
And I knew I had to go alone. I couldn’t be influenced by the opinions of another. My feelings and thoughts had to be my own, not those of someone else.
There was only one person I could think of in the whole world who I wanted to travel back in time with me, someone who wouldn’t be so opinionated as to ruin my adventure, who would see our trip as simply a journey to an unknown area and a place that I held dear to my heart.
He wouldn’t place judgement on me. He wouldn’t complain. He wouldn’t be overly opinionated as to the reasons I wished to take this trip, but would simply enjoy the change of scenery.
He wouldn’t burst my bubble. And I could trust him, implicitly. My thirteen year old son.
I took a leap of faith. Faith in my son; faith in myself; faith in the mountains of my memories.
And they didn’t disappoint. 
