Lost Balloon By Sarah

For Audrey’s birthday, her cousin, Jillian, thought that Kate might feel badly about not getting any gifts so she bought her a light pink Mylar balloon decorated with cupcakes and the words, “Happy Birthday”.  Since we were throwing Audrey a surprise birthday party all birthday supplies were hidden in the garage along with the balloon for Kate.  In all of the hustle and bustle of birthday fun the balloon was forgotten and left in the garage until the next day.  

Kate cracks me up.  She is so cautious socially.  She is shy and calculates her risks carefully before opening up.  But put her on her scooter and she flies, no fear, no holding back.  She goes so fast and crazy that the scooter wanders all over the sidewalk, swaying dangerously left and right.  This particular scooter has three wheels, one in front and two in the back for stability.  Her weaving and wobbling always leave only the front wheel and one back wheel on the ground, leaving me waiting for a big spill.  The funniest part is how she ducks her head down, tucking her chin into her chest, closing her eyes and pushing as fast and as hard as her six year old legs will let her go.  I don’t know how she hasn’t gotten hurt driving blind like that, but somehow her guardian angels seem to keep up with her.  (Knock on wood). 

            On this particular day my van was in a shop about ½ mile from my house being repaired.  As we set off walking to pick up our van, the balloon was carefully tied to the handlebars of her scooter.  She rode a few paces ahead of me, stopping at each corner waiting so we could cross the intersections together.  Each time I caught up with her I’d hear bits and pieces of the story running through her head.  Inner monologue flowing out her lips.  I never really got the whole story, just little wisps of her creativity.  Once she whizzed by and hollered to her balloon, trailing along behind her , “Come on Isabel!  Keep up!”  I laughed to myself.  All things inanimate are alive through Kate.  Isabel, the balloon, accompanied us throughout the rest of our day’s busy activities until we pulled up to the house at the end of the day, ready to go inside for bathes and pajamas.  Kate, arm extended straight up, held onto just the tip of the balloon string exclaiming, ”Mommy!  Look at how high Isabel goes!”

            And then it was gone.  Up, up, up into the sky.  Kate yelled out, ”Oh, Daddy, get it!”  But it was too late.  It traveled with the breeze into the tippy top of our tree about 30 feet in the air.  And there it stuck within view, but out of reach. 

            Kate lost it.  This was nothing like a tantrum.  She didn’t just cry.  She grieved.  At one point she couldn’t even hold herself up anymore and fell to her knees begging me, “Please Mommy, please Mommy, please Mommy!  I just want it back.  Please get it back.”

            I looked up at the impossibility of her broken hearted request.  There was absolutely nothing I could do.  She continued in her misery.  Wailing.  Weeping. Deep wracking sobs of someone whose world had just fallen apart.  My husband (who hadn’t seen the earlier interaction between the girl and her balloon) raised his eyebrows and said, “This is a little ridiculous, don’t you think.” 

I smiled and responded, “Not to her.”  I scooped her up and held her as she pitifully kept softly repeating between brokenhearted sobs, “Please Momma. Please.  I just want it back.”

            Now, I know I have basically spent the last year living as a human sprinkler system with a malfunctioning timer, going off at irregular intervals for irrational reasons (with some rational ones mixed in), but her anguish was so real, so heartfelt, so truly sincere, I couldn’t help it.  I cried with her.  I kissed her sweaty forehead and every time she whispered, “I just want it back.”  I whispered, “I know, I know, hunny."

 And I thought of Miles.  I thought of Mark, Andrae, and Vivian.  I thought of my Uncle and Aunt and cousins and their lost daughter and sister, Emily.  I thought of my sister and brother-in-law and their deep disappointment over recent lost job opportunities.  I thought of all the people I have known in the past year who have suffered devastating losses that have turned their worlds upside down and left them unable to stand, fallen to their knees in despair.  And I thought how excruciating other people’s pain is to bare.  To watch someone else suffer and have no means to alleviate that pain is a personal hell. 

            In my darkest moments, I would describe the ache in my heart as a glass jar full of water, sealed tight and placed in a freezer, cracking as the water freezes and expands and exceeds the jars capacity.  My heart was broken and flooded by my own grief and the grief I saw in others.  In these darkest moments, I’d weep for all of them.  I still weep for them.

             The day Kate lost her balloon, I sat in her room with her on my lap, considering this thing, loss.  I considered my own helplessness, rocking her back and forth.  I desperately pondered over my role in the lives and losses of my friends and family, and I ruminated over if I was doing enough.  If only... If only I could reach up to the sky and return your lost balloon.  If only, if only, if only...  in the mean time you will have to live with the loss, and I will have to watch you.  I have no solution.  No fix.  All I have is comfort.  Arms to hold you, words to soothe.  And maybe sometimes just being there is enough, because Kate’s sobs subsided and she eventually relaxed against me.  

Kate

Audrey entered the room with a little grin.  She said she had a secret to tell me.  It was something about the “B-A-L-L-O-O-N” she spelled out in a whisper through partially parted lips.  She came real close to my ear and whispered, “Tomorrow, will you take me to the dollar store so I can buy Kate a new balloon with my birthday money?”  We never did replace the balloon, but knowing that Audrey wanted to was enough.  Kate, knowing I was there, ended up being enough.  Being there and wanting to take the pain away was enough.

Thank God for my children.  How they unknowingly and innocently teach me.