I just wanted to buy some helium balloons.
It was my daughter’s sixteenth birthday and probably one of the last times I will do this.
A young man and woman scarcely older than she is walk me down the aisle to fill them,
Backs turned to me.
On the way, two people walking the other way remark, based on their faces, “Balloons?”
I hope the look is one of joy, not doom.
The earth is almost out of helium.
I try to act distracted while I wait, a cake in hand.
I have told them I want rainbow colors- they can pick.
He holds up a lime colored balloon for consideration. She agrees and fills it.
Then he says he wants to get a Jeep that color too,
Asks her if she wants to ride in the passenger seat. Says she would look good.
She deflects lightly, but the picture’s in her head now,
And no one knows now what she will do with that. What it will turn into.
What it will mean if the small materialistic dream comes true, or if it doesn’t.
What does it represent to them? What life and hopes does it signify— to him? To her? To me?
I walk out with a rainbow bouquet of hot air trailing behind me.
It is windy and the strings get tangled.
I wrangle them into my car.
But for a moment of colorful spectacle, I can’t help but beam with joy.
