I can’t recall where, but as a seven year old I’d been somewhere that earnt me a balloon.

I was walking home with my mum, one hand in her hand and my other holding this balloon.  Best balloon in the world, its smooth silky like bobbing in the wind captivated me.  She danced as dusk touched our day.

We were nearly home, I must have got distracted, maybe mum was asking a question or the magic of my balloon temporarily escaped me.

One minute my balloon was safe in the guardian grip of my hand, holding the string that kept my balloon close.

Yet then she was gone, floating away into the air, higher and higher, gone lost.

I had this such clear vivid memory of hopelessly chasing my balloon, shouts and tears as she floated higher to the moon.

Without Rhyme or reason I was crushed.  Years later as an adult, that memory confused me, why did the loss of this balloon upset me.

At that age the little things that are so important, so crucial seem miniscule as an adult.  Yet they signpost to who we are.

I made that balloon a part of me and with it’s loss it felt I was losing something close.  Like a close friend that becomes a distant contact.

Not sure this makes sense, no rhyme or reason i guess, but I do hope that balloon, made it to the moon.

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