Saturday, March 20, 2010 at 3:07pm
The sun shines through the lenses of my sunglasses, warming my eyes to sleep. I put down my book – Otto's The Idea of the Holy- and drift up through the branches, across a jet-stream-cloud representing someone's return home, and someone's leaving. A single red balloon rises from the distant trees. I wonder at the circumstances of its flight. Did an unexpected gust tug it from the grip of a tiny hand? Did she cry as it rose out of reach?
Or was it a wish? Did she, much older, much sadder, remember the lost balloon of her youth, and send this one up to meet it? As these questions form, I look across the cloud, a line through the blue. I drift back towards the red balloon, but it has slipped from my grip as well.
Or was it a wish? Did she, much older, much sadder, remember the lost balloon of her youth, and send this one up to meet it? As these questions form, I look across the cloud, a line through the blue. I drift back towards the red balloon, but it has slipped from my grip as well.
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