Of the Occasion Upon Which My Balloon Left Me and My Subsequent Attempts to Retrieve It

It may appear, to the casual reader, that this tale concerns only the most frivolous and marginal of events, and deserves no place in the productive, modern society. To whomever this first thought may have occurred, I suggest that you have failed to grasp the truly powerful hold a red balloon exerts upon the youthful heart. Whether you were robbed of a usual childhood entirely or simply missed this experience through a freak happenstance in your upbringing, I would not guess. I can only say that you have egregiously underestimated the power of a childhood fascination.

The sad events themselves occurred upon a warm, blustery afternoon of late May. It was the time of year when the vivacity of spring still lingers, albeit distorted, upon the dying petals of the early bloom, and children such as I were instilled with an insatiable desire to seek mischief in all forms.

The circumstances under which I acquired that ill-fated balloon have long since faded in my memory, marginal as they were, considering the events to follow. My father, myself, and my balloon were, the three of us, crossing a lonely parking lot. When I look back upon that time, I suspect my father must have been in a foul mood, although I cannot say decidedly one way or the other, for such adult emotions as surliness and cantankerousness so often fail to register in the immature mind.

I was enjoying thoroughly the sight of my glorious red balloon being buffeted to and fro by a gentle wind, and had scarcely a care in the world. Perhaps it was in the spirit of rectifying my utter happiness that the universe arranged for the events that followed to transpire.