Pink Velcro Shoes and a Windy Day
In my memory, it doesn’t matter whose birthday party it was, where it was held, or how my friend was going to be. All I know is that I loved that balloon. A supervising mother thrust it into my hands seconds before I left the party, holding a small bag proclaiming “THANK YOU!” full of candy and little toys. My focus was on this bag, envisioning myself unwrapping the delectable Hershey’s bar, and devouring the sweets I wasn’t usually allowed to have. But somehow I remember this balloon more vividly than I remember what happened yesterday. It wasn’t even all that pretty, either; it was orange, with a broad brown stripe in the middle, with two narrow yellow bands around the brown. When I received this balloon, I was more proud than I would be getting my high school diploma, and the desire for the forbidden candy disappeared as quickly as it came.
I have a massive pine tree in my backyard, taller than my two-story house, and I learned the hard way that several treasured balloons would fall as accidental victims to this beast. Gripping the ribbon, trailing from the knot of security at the bottom of the balloon, until my knuckles faded to white, I carefully and gently pulled the balloon close to me to the point where I could feel the static on its surface. I was continuously checking my arms for silent killer pine needles that could have very likely fallen off the tree, and obsessively looking for everything that could easily end the life of this innocent object.
Tiptoeing across each studied and memorized crack and bump in the sidewalk, I took every step as if it were my last, making sure to eliminate every possible chance that I would slip and fall, releasing my new prized possession from my clutches and literally sending my hopes into space. My pink, size one, kid’s Velcro shoes became creased where my toes met my feet, scarring my shoes with reminders of this day. Even now, the tension of taking a test does not compare to the high stakes of this journey from driveway to door. Every square of cement I passed on the pavement brought me one step closer to a checkpoint along my destination: inside my house. Safe.
Finally reaching the porch, relief escaping through my toes as the soles of my feet touched down on the freshly sanded wood, I waited impatiently for my mom to unlock the door. Each ticking second opened more opportunities for my balloon to escape, and it seemed to take her hours to go around each side of our worn-out car to collect her belongings. Based on how long she was taking, she might as well have been digging out hidden bags of future Christmas presents, hinting at me to walk to my friend Greta’s house, a few blocks away.
But suddenly, out of nowhere, a devilish gust of wind flew in quickly and unexpectedly, and somehow the ribbon of my precious balloon shimmied through a careless miniscule gap in my fingers. I sharply remember staring helplessly at the free balloon, the distance between us agonizingly growing every moment that passed. Gone.
I was absolutely crushed. Now that I look back at it, what would I have even done with the balloon anyway? It would have been situated in my bedroom for maybe two or three days, slowly inching towards the ground and gradually deflating. Then it would be left for my mother to cut it open, the helium floating into the surrounding air, only for the balloon to be completely flattened and then thrown out. But there was just something about this balloon that kept me longing to extend my arm, brush past the hazy sky, and retrieve it, keeping it forever.
To this day, I can still point out the exact spot on my back porch where I watched the balloon disappear through the clouds, barely an identifiable speck in the sky, and I often have mysterious dreams of it fighting to leave my grip, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Every time it manages to escape me.
I love that song. And this paper, get it girl. Randy better give you an A
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