The Red Balloon

Corinne opened the back door and stepped out into the garden. Mug of coffee in hand she slowly walked round the lawn, eyes downward, caring little for the glassy beads of dew still clinging to the grass late in the morning. Copper coloured leaves dappled the ground and the thick, leafy border of bushes bowed slightly under the weight of recent rainfall. The steam from her mug rose and mingled with her billowing steamy breath in the crisp air.

Something caught Corinne's eye under a bush on the far side of the garden. Curious, she walked over the slippery grass for a closer look. She bent down, pushing back a thorny branch to see what was there and picked up the odd red rag. Tugging gently to free it she realised there was something attached to it. She wiped away slimy crumbs of wet earth and saw in her hand a wrinkled old red balloon with a length of grubby white string tied around the knot. Attached to the string was an old fashioned buff coloured tag like you would see tied to luggage. She turned the card over and in a simple hand was written 'LET GO' in black letters. Corinne drew her brows together. What a strange thing to find. She remained crouched down among the sweet earthy smells of the garden pondering what the tag meant. It could be a simple instruction to the person holding the balloon, or it might have been a random phrase plucked out of the air. But why a balloon? It seemed such a strange way to pass on a message or give orders. Corinne shrugged and went back into the house, balloon still in hand and laid it down absent mindedly on the phone table in the hall. She looked up the stairs longingly and thought about going back to bed and drummed her fingernails against the side of her barely touched coffee cup. Resignedly, she turned and went into her living room, dropping herself down on the sofa with a tired groan. The sky was grey and overcast outside, filling the room with shadows but Corinne barely noticed. She hardly noticed anything anymore.

Corinne was only half alive. Most of Corinne had died. Her life had never really had a meaning, just like all of our lives really. She had lived a small, paper thin existence, thinking that noticing the subtle changes in seasons and enjoying the warmth of another body in the darkest hours of the night was what it meant to feel alive. Corinne knew she had only been alive in the truest sense for a short period of time and remembered with shocking clarity the day she died. Corinne came to life the day her daughter was born. Her eyes were opened and she had never seen more clearly. Her life truly meant something. Rose was the best part of her, what made her want to be good, for the world to be better and to give pure, unconditional love. The crude, whimsical poetry of a blazing red autumn sunset or the first snowdrop of spring meant nothing to her unless she saw it reflected in her daughter's eyes. This was her purpose, her chance to do something good and meaningful. Corinne soared. This was actually being alive. Corinne's life was shortlived.

A happy blossoming six year old was taken form Corinne and sealed in a wooden box, her essence snuffed out, her light turned to darkness. That day Corinne died too. Her life was an empty waiting room, her prison cell until she was freed to be with Rose again.

Deciding today, like every day had no purpose she decided to go back to bed after all. Setting aside her cold coffee she trudged along the hall toward the stairs. She stopped briefly to run her fingers over a photograph on the hall table. Corinne and Rose at the seaside. Guileless, happy faces captured smiling forever in the moment, no concern for what was to come. Rose's eyes looked straight into the camera, impressing her happiness on all who looked at her, her mother's arms wrapped loosely around her waist. Corinne's eyes lovingly wandered for the thousandth time over her child's wind tangled hair, her shoulders dusted with new freckles. It was the first time she noticed the red balloon in her daughter's right hand.