My Original Works

Red Balloon

Red Balloon.

It means more than that, right?

Red balloon, blue sky, bright eyes. Enchanting scents, shy smiles, endless chatter.

A day together.

I remember the day we traveled through the amusement park; the day you bought me the significant red balloon that I still have tied to the knob of my bedroom door.

I remember how you said you'd be there for me no matter what I went through, and that you'd slay any beast that dared to threaten my existence.

You lied.

Well, not entirely. You just left far too soon.

You said that you had your own demons to deal with, your own beasts that you had to rid yourself of, and that I wasn't meant to worry about it. It would all go away in due time.

It got worse.

The coughing, the cold skin, the tired eyes that signified more. The loss, not only of yourself but of everything you had once held dear.

Loss.

I used to believe that things would get better; that you would come home from that dreaded building and everything would be fixed, and that we could go and spend more well-deserved time at the amusement park.

The red balloon.

"Keep this close," you had whispered, "remember me when you see it floating."

It seemed like a boring gift; a gift that you nod in response to receiving and then discard behind closed doors. I used to think that, but now I understand how much it means to me.

You continued to fight even when given the chance to give up. You were presented with the choice of relaxation in your final moments, but you chose the pain of continuing on and seeing what life had to throw at you.

Even as you lay in that hospital bed, your heart monitor beeping to signify the signs of life, you refused to give in. You believed you had a chance.

"Promise me one thing, and one thing only," you barely parted your lips to utter the words I keep in my heart. "Fly like a red balloon, follow me when your time comes."

And on the day you took your last breath, the balloon finally gave way, falling to the floor.