It’s terribly unfortunate that one should be so singularly concerned with something so infantile and unimportant as that which I’ve become enthralled with: A missing balloon.
Not released but blown away. And though my understanding is that the balloon must float away into the endless abyss of blue and cloud so that it may deflate over some other part of the earth and die on new land; that some new child will walk on or play on or fly kites on or hold balloons on - yes; though I understand all that, there is still this momentary sadness. The short-lived longing to have back what is only just out of reach and surely happy to be free of the constraints of this ordinary life. There is still this mourning for that which I clung to and which I allowed to be my happiness for the time. Yes, I understand that all things are always turning, but I still wish I could hold on to the string of my read balloon and stop the wheel from spinning long enough to tell her thank you and I love you.
As she is gone, I tell her thank you, and oh, how I love you.
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