Balloons

This is kind of a weird one.

When I was five years old, I loved balloons. All kinds. Red balloons, blue balloons, yellow ballons, I loved them all. Mostly I loved red balloons — especially the ones with helium — and whenever I would accidentally let go of the ribbon and watch my red helium balloon float into the sky, I would scratch my chin in awe and wonder if it could possibly hit the tropopause barrier. I really loved balloons.

I loved to pop them too. I would blow my balloons up until my cheeks felt like they were inside out, then I’d toss the balloons in the air and poke at them with a fork. I’d squeal really hard at the loud sounds the popping would make. But this was all assuming that I could successfully tie the knots on them because my fingers were so tiny back then that usually as soon as I blew up my balloons, they would slip out of my hands and deflate rudely, forcing me to chase them in circles around the room. I never complained about this, though. Balloons were fun no matter what. I loved balloons.

One Saturday morning, when I was still five years old, I was playing with one of my toy cars, making sound effects. I went, “VRRROOOM, VRRROOOOM, VRRRROOOOM!!!” I still remember the toy car. It wasn’t a red balloon, but it was good enough. It was a convertible, a red one, one of those Hotwheels. I kept on vrroom-vrrroooming, eventually vrrroooming myself all the way into my parents’ bedroom, knocking over their garbage can.

And there, hanging out of the spilled contents of the garbage can, is where I saw the most special balloon I had ever seen in my life.

It wasn’t red, or blue, or yellow. It was clear. Transparent. It was a see-through balloon.

I was so happy.

I pulled out the clear balloon, and noticed that there was juice inside of it. I laughed knowingly. Whoever had last played with the balloon must have had the same problem I always had: slobbering into the balloon while blowing it up. Sometimes, personally, I wasn’t even sure if I was able to put more air than spit inside a balloon.

I began blowing the clear balloon up. But it was difficult. The balloon wasn’t cooperating. It wasn’t turning round. It was turning into a hotdog. Determined, I pinched the opening of the balloon to gather myself, sucked in as much air as I possibly could, then blew with all my might.

I blew and until I was blue.

But the balloon wouldn’t turn round. It just kept getting longer.

Soon it occurred to me that this balloon must have been one of those types that circus clowns used to make animal balloons, and that’s when I turned my frown into a smile again. I was happy. I really had a special balloon.

So I continued blowing into my special clear balloon, happy as could be, until my mother walked into the room and screamed and dry-heaved in horror. I cried.