Balloons

I've been thinking about balloons,

how the waxy outside of them gets more and more sheer with each breath that fills it,

but the color still remains,

like all of the things we empty ourselves into are still beautiful despite our being emptier for them.

Balloons,

how when they are released it feels as if they are going to heaven.

And that feeling was so warm in our chests,

we tied paper to them and scrawled with news for each angel.

Except that when learning that our messages did not make it to their destinations,

but instead filled the fragile throats of ocean animals,

we began to feel more like devils.

And how learning that felt more like shouting;

that you can never miss the dead as much as you can love the living.

Balloons,

with their twisting, curling ribbons gripped in the sweaty fists of children.

How the child will cry when they accidentally let go,

and watch as it turns into a speck in the sky,

and continue to watch even after it's gone.

Tears round and shining on their tomato cheeks.

How we want to tell them that the letting go is the best part,

and the time for crying comes later,

when letting go turns into releasing.

When the dam of emptiness that the balloon took up breaks.

Balloons,

and our lungs that match them,

fill and empty themselves without us giving it any thought at all.

But that balloon,

that colored dot against the sky,

occupies everything,

breaks everything,

fills our fragile throats,

covers our cheeks in fresh pearls.

The letting go,

and how we are all still just children.