Yellow balloom

Shiny bit of cheap plastic is hanging high on the tree and it will stay there. Dying balloon hindering couple of the blooming buds in the early spring. I feel exhilarated when I see the balloon high in the air, taken away from the sight, challenging my eyes to look longer than what they can stand. Pressing hand on the forehead to prolong the time I can follow its path. The path is certain death of course. It will not go to anyone’s else hand, it’s time of making any kid happy is over, now it is pollution. And it is ugly and will stay there on the tree. Those kids that let balloons go, they are not climbing any trees. Secret of the yellow balloon, that is the name of the book that gave me twenty years of excitement about lost balloons. It takes whole thrill of the message in the bottle and attach it to the string of yellow balloon.

Growing up where and when I grew up was a compilation of such amount of absurdities and ill events that it is hard to know where to start. I have this problem of putting things into the time dimension. Memories are lateral, all the events that happened I can recall very well and to minute details. However, putting it on any coordinate of time is hard. Is it a good or bad thing I am not sure? In a way it means that all the events are connected and shaped this messed up personality.

I sat with T and this other guy on the terrace, having a beer and enjoying the sun. I read somewhere recently that sober guys are discussing boobs and asses, lots of sex topics, while drunk guys talk about politics, economy, social establishment, philosophy of life. To some extent it is true. So, this other guy was asking if we saw the news how in the country X situation got worse, shops have empty shelves and people are waiting in line for food. He went into repeating what was given in the news as right and wrong side. Risking being criticized I must say it is incredible how much trust people put into what they hear, without questioning anything. No wonder so many people and nations are lead to wars. So, I told them this story how my brother and I had to wake up at 5.30 to go to the line in front of the shop to wait for the delivery of milk. There would always be some older people already there but seeing two boys of 5 and 6 years old they would let us be the first. At six the shop would be open and we would get one liter of raw milk, sold in plastic bag. One liter per person was what was allowed, so we would run home and then run back to the end of the line. Line was very long and most of the days by the time it’s our turn again milk was gone and we would walk empty handed home. On rare days we would be lucky and get one or two liters again. When I finished the story, T said it is great I had that, which made me stunned. Then he elaborated that with having such experience I have different perspective and I see things in a different way than they can. Growing up in safe and secure environment must be boring, when one wish to have experience of those who suffer and fight on daily basis. This kind of wish is not real of course, same as that thing you imagine it must be amazing seeing volcano’s eruption and running lava down the hills, yet when you see the news of such events you shiver and feel relieved you are not there.

No silly thing as writing a message on piece of paper and sending it to unknown by balloon, or bottle, or stone, will occur to new kids. I remember being so much in love with this pale skin, dark haired girl and being so shy about it that I wrote it on the stone and threw it in the see so nobody would see it. A friend who visited house of my parents said it is most packed house he ever saw. It may seem so to someone, even to me now. But back then, it was a quite inspiring place, filled with all sort of items you may need for adventures, from spotting scope, telescope, real spy camera bought from soviet immigrants, messenger bags and scout knives, to the typewriter we used for anonymous love letters to the girls from the neighborhood. Letters were so anonymous that one day after the school my friend and I, young perpetrators had to practice sprints to get away from raged mother of these pretty curly girls. I guess spy camera doesn’t make you a spy, same as writing doesn’t make you a writer.

Originally published in: Anxiety of Storytelling