The Balloon in the Tree
When you’re a kid and your balloon flies away, your initial sadness is softened by the spectacle of the balloon floating off into the distance — shrinking smaller and smaller until it’s completely out of sight.
Think of the possibilities: Your balloon could’ve floated anywhere. Maybe it found its way into the big city, picked up a part-time barista gig, and does improv on the side. Maybe it met a bunch of balloon friends and drives out to a lakeside cabin on the weekends. Maybe it dated around and got its heart broken. Maybe it got super in shape and promotes protein shakes to its Instagram followers.
The beauty of being the child who let the balloon go — accidentally or curiously — is that you’re the one who gets to see it drift off toward nothingness. You get to dwell in the wonderful land of possibility. Where will it go? Will it ever come down? And by the time it does, you will have already moved on, lost interest.
As the child who let the balloon go, you’re none the wiser. You don’t have to see the reality of where it ends up. You don’t have to witness the nothingness.
About two blocks from my apartment, there’s a balloon stuck in the branches of a tree overhanging the street. I only started noticing it a few months ago, and now I pass it every morning on my drive to work.
