If you've ever found a balloon with a message tied to it in your front yard, it might've been from my siblings and me.
What happened to all those balloons we set free?
Balloons were a thing of childhood.
A treat from the dentist,
restitution for an hour of torment.
A stretchy-soft trophy,
tied with a ribbon on its rubbery stub tail
that squeaked when you caught it
between your freshly cleaned teeth.
It made you forget the taste of fluoride,
made your wrist feel floaty and free
It was tradition to let them go
before they turned to ethereal raisins, tied to our bedposts,
drooping sadly in the horizontal light of the morning
We'd scavenge a slip of paper
and etch a few words--
just a few, lest they add too much weight.
We'd roll them tightly so they couldn't escape
on the way to their accidental recipients.
Standing in the driveway we'd send the balloon messengers off,
watching them take to the clouds like buoys
and with them our imaginations.
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