Ever since I was a little girl, I have always loved balloons. They captured my attention with their whimsy. They'��re colorful, fun and often shiny. They bring me joy, however brief.


One of my earliest childhood memories is of my mother tying a ribbon around my wrist and telling me to hold on tight. We were at some random fair and my face and hands were sticky from devouring a funnel cake that probably deserves its own narrative. I was young enough then to still call her "Mommy" without embarrassment, but I had a short attention span and wasn't a very good listener.


I stared at my new bracelet with pride and strained my neck looking up with amazement at the balloon bobbing up and down on the other end. I tugged on the ribbon and waved my hand like an idiot. Tug tug. Giggle giggle. Mommy took my other hand and we walked. I was distracted by sights and sounds and a myriad of shiny objects along the way.


I let go of the ribbon. I thought it was an accident, but perhaps I was compelled to let go just to see what would happen. Maybe a part of me wanted to feel sad. I am clumsy and my chubby hands never work the way they should.

Anyway, I watched the ribbon unravel from my wrist in slow motion. My balloon flew away, as I grasped for something sparkling in the sun that moved in ways I didn'��t understand. I wasn'��t tall enough or fast enough. The wind picked up and I couldn'��t catch it. Before I could blink, my balloon had flown high into the treetops. For a second, it hovered among the branches, and then it was gone beyond my sight.


I missed my balloon immediately and started to cry my eyes out. A petulant child was I. Of course, Mommy was there to console me and buy me another balloon. But a part of me would always want what I couldn'��t have.


I grew older and Mommy wasn'�t always around to cater to my heart'��s desire. I gave balloons as gifts, in hopes that they would bring joy to others, the same way they brought joy to me. I try not to focus on the eventual disappointment I have often experienced with their fragile nature; I choose to admire their reckless abandon. Besides, flowers die. Or so I've always said. Balloons make me smile.


To be honest, I've forgotten the color and the shape of that balloon. No matter. I think it's obvious that I assign significance to what some might consider small things. The moral of this story is that I have learned to hold on tight. After all, there are so few things in life that bring me that kind of joy. When I have something I treasure, I catch myself looking at it with the same childish wonder. I wear the same innocent grin.


And f**k if I'��m going to let go.

Hehehe ...Excellent.....Just excellent!

How delightful that you captured the essence of love and its expression and see the gift is in the sharing and not the keeping...for the more you hold on the sooner it moves away as all love is only ours to be shared and not kept...

I love that so much.

Thanks. This story made my mother cry, but in a good way.

Aww, I'm sure. It's lovely though. And it has such meaning, letting go is hard at any age. I still suck at it....