100% Balloons


balloons in the sky


I can identify with balloons. Big, bright bouquet of balloons. Taking flight, one at a time, floating into the great open azure. Disappearing. Diminishing like dissolving popsicles.

I can identify with popsicles. Colorful, tasty popsicles. Delightful until they melt, like my big ideas, melting away into a sorry little puddle; a dream with now clipped wings.

Picture a kettle of carrots cooked, left sitting cold and soft waiting to be blended into baby food. The bright idea of doing lots of laundry. Washing all the beds as well which end up in a mountainous pile of clean sheets on the floor at the foot of the bed in high hopes they’ll make themselves.

Partially empty Kleenex box caging receipts needing to be filed.

Homeless water colors for days.

Ripped out pages from the GoodHouseKeeping floating around in the kitchen – how to make fried chicken, iced coffee concentrate and organizational tips to put into action.

Plus all the ordinary things.

Ideas. My brain is full of them. Like a sack filled with bouncing helium balloons. My skull is stretched tight. Focusing on what’s around me is difficult. What’s concrete. I chase one idea down, follow a string to its brightly latex end. Grab it; a red one. Whoosh! In 10 seconds flat it slips through my hand. It’s slips away and chances are never to be seen again (at least not in the next 24 hours, anyway).

It slips free because now I’ve suddenly spotted a yellow one.

“Let’s make fiber balls, Gavin!” she says in the middle of corralling dishes crawling out of the sink.

When I tether my body and mind on my children, it grounds me. Concretes. Feeling them actually on me, activates my senses like quikrete. Baby’s fingers pinching, bruising my arms and neck. The three-year-old letting me know he’s here, jamming his pointy heal on my boney foot. Sticky ketchup on their arms, baby food smeared on a check and eyelid, sweaty bodies, stinky rears, and calls to come play with me harmonized with little squeals and jibberish.

All that stuff is real and my actual life.
If I choose to see it….

But wait, is that a blue balloon?
balloons - from photopin

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