It’s been lingering, right there, in the hallway. For almost two days now.
Slowly deflating dreams of what could have been. Of a newborn — perhaps a boy since the balloon is blue and the world lives in binaries — waiting to be welcomed. Or someone’s turn around the sun. I guess we’ll never know.
But no more. There’s no laughter. No toasts. No other balloons to hang out in a cluster with.
***
I first encountered the balloon on my way home the other night. The elevator door jankily opened to my floor and I strutted down the hallway, wearing cowboy boots and the kind of tipsy buzz that can only come from a rainy Sunday afternoon. It was almost 9 pm. The darkness of a December evening eerily pronouncing the end of another weekend.
Everyone had gone home except the balloon.
In that moment, I didn’t give it much thought. My umbrella leaving traces of raindrops behind, my jeans drenched into a new shade of navy. I just wanted to be inside. An irrational fear of balloons had me walking exaggerated steps around it. It. As if IT was going to jump up at me.
Maybe I just hate bursting things.
Yesterday, when I left to go to the shops to pick up crackers, I didn’t expect to see it there again. The thought didn’t even cross my mind. Why would it? It’s just someone else’s balloon from someone else’s party. But like clockwork, there it was, lingering in this liminal space. Floating between two doors and a hazardous yellow “Wet Floor” sign. Oh it was a warning alright.
Funny how no-one really notices something until it disappears.
Funny how we become so territorial over something in an instant.
Funny how no matter the object — alive or dead — we’re just fighting to be here.
Today, I walked outside to get my mail and felt sad when I thought the balloon was gone.
It was still there. Nestled around the corner of the hallway. Fighting.
Two days ago it meant nothing to me.
Now it’s everything.
Free Palestine 🇵🇸