One Year

One of my earliest memories is of a red balloon. It was my first experience with helium, and someone had put it in my hand after a birthday party and told me not to let it go. But I didn’t understand− I saw the way it tugged on the ribbon, but I was used to the balloons that bounced around my feet. The ones that terrified me because the sound of their squashed explosions shocked like a sudden heart attack. But this balloon was different. Safe from stomping soles, it bobbed along beside me like a friend. And, trustingly, on the walk home from the party I let it go for a moment. Just a moment, probably to use two hands to dig through a goody bag. I thought the balloon would sit and wait patiently until I reached for it again, beaming scarlet warmth set all aglow by that Saturday sunshine. But when I looked up, it had vanished; it wasn’t until someone, likely my mother, pointed it out sailing towards the sky that I realized what had happened. “I told you not to let it go!” She said exasperatedly. “Now it’s gone.”

But I questioned: can you let go of something you never really had? I wasn’t sure it could be my fault that I’d failed to force my will on it. Looking back, I recalled how it had only been the weight of my closed fist that had kept that balloon earthbound; not even gravity could hold it next to me and make it stay. There’s physics involved I suppose, something that could explain that determined upward trajectory, the resistance to my insistent grasp, but I’ve never been very good at science. Even then though, I knew that balloon had been bound for one direction regardless of my childish need− I’d only served as a temporary roadblock on its path, like one of those stalls on the side of the road that you pull over to for lunch on your way home.  

When I looked up again, the balloon was a little red pinhead caressing the clouds, and I wondered where it was going, if it would get tangled in condensation like cobwebs. But part of me knew deep down that it was simply returning to wherever it had come from. That whatever sweet moment we’d had together had been built on borrowed time; it had never really been mine to claim in the first place. I did feel sad though as I watched it glide away, and I’m sure I shed a few tears− inflated drops that didn’t float but fell towards the earth to land around my feet. I felt guilty too, and blamed myself for the loss; someone said something about birds and I pictured one trying to swallow the balloon midair, latex clogging the soft, plumed trachea.

But not anymore. I’m older now, and perhaps a little wiser too. The truth is, sometimes we lay blame in the wrong places, and we forget about the invisible forces all around us working their will. We don’t see gravity and helium, tugging, pulling, and stretching the direction of our lives. It’s easy to fall into the trap of regret and guilt, to dwell on waste and lost opportunities, and it’s even easier in the face of grief to shoulder all the responsibility for that pain.

However, I’m no masochist. I remember the day (years after the balloon incident) when I learned about helium during a classroom demonstration, and finally understood that nothing I could have done would have made it stay. Even if I’d taken that balloon and tied it to the soil, had anchored it beside me, it would have eventually lost its glorious glow, would have deflated and wrinkled into something not worth holding onto. Though it took me a long time to realize it, I’d been powerless from the beginning in that tug of war with the sky, and any control I thought I’d had had been nothing more than an illusion at the end of a plastic ribbon. It’s not my fault it floated away, because it had never really considered me a permanent place to lay. While it might look like I was reckless, just an irresponsible child, really it moved on as I remained frozen on the sidewalk with an arm outstretched.

They say if you love something, set it free, and if it comes back it was meant to be. But what they should really say is that if you love something you shouldn’t have any cuffs to unlock; that pulling, or tying, or restraining are not words that describe a real partnership. True love sees you as you are and decides you’re not a pit stop but rather a place to put down roots, someone worth that self-imposed gravity. True love is not a red balloon, buoyed by helium, but rather something infinitely more tangible, drawn to your earth, and I finally accept that it’s okay to want that.