An orange balloon on a white string
escapes from a little girl’s hand;
it rises in a swimming motion
like a zigzagging, a ripple, a bright
orange squiggle in a pale blue sky,
grows smaller as we bend
our necks back to watch it. The little girl
points at the balloon, her face stricken;
she cries and tugs at the folds
of her mother’s dress. A crowd of us
watches at the hotdog stand
what is now just a speck
of orange, as if it were
a flock of birds, a sudden rush
of wings, an arc in the sky, the loss
of something we know but can’t
articulate. The balloon disappears
into an emptiness no longer
contained, into a traceless sky.
The mother gently gathers
her daughter in her arms, kisses
a now damp cheek, promises
a new balloon. The crowd
disappears into the street.
Originally published in The Cold Mountain Review, 2013.
Heather A. Holliger 