He loves balloons. He always has. If we go to a restaurant and they have balloons, he wants one to bring home. Or if we are at a party, he must bring home a balloon. Wherever we are and if balloons are there, he must have one. He loves them.
Loving balloons is not easy. Balloons never last. One moment they are full of air, their vibrant colorful sphere bouncing through the air attached to a thin ribbon clutched by him. His smile radiates across his entire being. He plays with that balloon. He giggles and laughs out loud as he alternates between keeping it up in the air and holding it in his arms. This enjoyment can last for minutes or hours, sometimes it has lasted days. But in an instant the balloon inevitably pops and with it the magic is gone. He comes crying to me holding the remains of the latex in his hand and asks with tear-filled eyes, why? Why did it have to pop? Why did his joy have to end? I tell him that sometimes it just happens. There was nothing he did, exactly (unless it was a matter of jumping up and down on it or poking it with a pen) that caused its demise. He weeps for his lost balloon. He weeps for the fun that is now gone. I hug him and tell him its okay to be sad. I tell him he will be okay and someday there will be another balloon. We take the balloon's remains and put them in the trash. He wipes his eyes, takes a deep breath, pauses then bolts out the back door to play. He is okay.
And, regardless of the number of times he endures the loss of his balloon, it doesn't prevent him from loving the next one that catches his eye. He is my inspiration for loving fully no matter the heartache that may come.
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