The moment the folding wagon snaps open, the weekend begins. We pile in the toddler, the dog leash, half-eaten rice cakes, and a kite that never quite flies. One pull and the park turns into a map of treasures: the pond where ducks demand tolls, the hill that doubles as a pirate ship, the shady oak whose roots make perfect seats for snack time. When tiny legs quit, the wagon becomes a rolling couch, a nap-time spaceship, a safe zone after scraped knees. Sand sticks to the wheels, goldfish crumbs fill the seams, yet every fold-away sunset feels like sealing summer in a suitcase. Years from now I will remember less about the gear and more about the laughter that rode along, proof that the best memories are the ones we never have to carry alone.