Drifting

I feel like a child whose balloon has escaped into the sky. Unlike a child, I am not wailing. Instead, I am watching it shrink as it rises and wondering whether it is so lamentable. The gifts we receive in life can be like balloons handed to us as children. Though we adore their marvelous color and gravity-defining, rarely can we manage a lasting hold on it. We look away at another child passing by or towards the origin of screams coming from a nearby amusement ride. Our fingers open ever so slightly for want of concentration, and our balloon takes flight. "It was meant for the sky, not for you," says the grizzled grandfather. "There are other balloons," says the consoling father. "We'll get you another one," says the sympathetic mother. Sometimes we lack the motivation to jump after it, anticipating the futility of the action. Sometimes, we mourn the loss by swearing off balloons. I am simply gazing at it and making note of its bearings. So this is the way balloons leave: east, then northeast, but always up.
I am older now and realize I am still holding other strings even though one recently snuck out. Until we die, we are always holding at least one pretty thing on a string. Some children want to look up at what is lost and cry. The wiser ones blow it a goodbye kiss.