Releasing Balloons

Standing in Mamaw's yard, dewy blades of grass sticking to our toes, Ashley and I  gently kissed the latex and uncurled our fists.  We watched the colorful ascension into heaven and whispered messages to our Papaw until the spheres blended with the sky.

Growing up, whenever we received balloons, whether from a birthday celebration or from another special gathering, certain balloons were always reserved for those we had loved and lost... the strings that slipped through our clenched fists too soon.  

I have liberated many balloons over the years.

As I reflect on my week, my mind has paused on a reel of memories- the embrace, the unfurling, and the quiet absolution.  I find myself lost in the imagery of Mamaw's tradition.

Every fall, I receive a new, breathtakingly colorful bouquet, and for a short time, I get to hold the strings.  

For eight months, my nails dig into the palms of my hands.  I hold so tightly that the nail prints crack the dry palms of winter, and at times, blood surfaces, but it doesn't matter because the beauty of the task always silences the pain.

Sometimes we pause to disentangle a string or two.  As I gingerly climb gnarled branches and carefully navigate the labyrinth of an unpredictable landscape, I question myself at every foothold.  

Occasionally our entire day is spent in the act of the unraveling, but it is worth it for the moment I find you- afraid but still capable of flight.  The descent is much quicker, but it is my favorite.  It is when I keep you closest, and you don't mind because I am familiar with each foothold.

For 180 days we continue our journey together.  There are days of clear landscapes and weeks in the woods, but every day that I get to hold the strings is a precious gift.