We used to run toward Grandma’s backyard once the snow thawed, where the tulips blossomed out from the prickly green grass, the pink and white bleeding-heart buds bloomed on vibrant green branches, and the pink flowers flourished on the cherry blossom tree. We stared at the bright pink trim that surrounded the petal’s white interior and watched the pink petals dance toward the ground after they clung tightly to the branches. Grandma watched us from the dark brown deck as we made pink snow angels with fallen petals. We called them cherry angels. But we couldn’t eat the petals like we would snow angels. We learned as soon as the soft petals grazed our rough tongues that they didn’t taste like cherries. They would never taste like cherries.