For early Monday morning

It was one of the ugliest balloons in the whole store.
It was also one of the greatest joys of the entire day.
It landed on the hot stovetop.
It floated up to the very highest point of the ceiling, from which only Dad could reach it.
And it survived.
In the end—it was an honor for him to fall asleep tied to its string around his wrist.

You won’t believe it, but even the fate of that balloon is, in Pa’s understanding, already “decided.”
After her birthday,
she will write a little note,
attach it to the balloon,
and release it.
So it will fly to another country or another planet (she hasn’t decided yet).
And whoever receives the balloon will call her.
And they will be friends.

Happily ever after.

The “after story” of the tale—yesterday, after the wild birthday party, the balloon came home tied to her hand in exactly the same way.
Too pretty to abandon.

This morning at 7:22 a.m., I gave the balloon’s owner a little poke for a good day, saying goodbye and wishing her a great day at kindergarten—exactly five years ago, at 7:22 a.m., I had poked her for the very first time.

From early morning, I was hanging onto sentimentality by the arm.

Ah, those moms…

V.