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She could only watch the balloon drift away.
She imagined extending her arms a little farther
or grabbing a ladder and climbing between the clouds,
but her body was motionless, just watching.
The bright pink was fading into the sky as the string
dangled towards her,
Beckoning her,
daring her to touch it with her fingertips.
Yet again, she tried to stretch a little farther,
but it was already miles away.
She wondered how long it would take to reach the sun.
Really, she knows it didn’t. It must have ascended and fell again,
landing somewhere on the ground,
taunting her by pretending to be in reach.
She never found it.
Every time she spotted bright pink in the corner of her eye,
some part of her hoped that it was back.
That she had another chance.
But it was always just a bright cloud in the sunset
or a luminescent glow stick at a party
or the shiny lipstick of a stranger.
If there are infinitely many parallel universes,
she hopes that in one of them she saved that balloon.
In another, she never let go.
In a third, she found it again waiting on her doorstep,
reinflated it, and carried it everywhere.
She hopes those versions of herself cherish it.
She dreams of the rising balloon,
the string flailing in the wind,
the emptiness of her hands as it soars on its own,
the dimness of her eyes as it disappears into the overcast sky.
She watches it leave,
and as it flies,
she feels herself fall.
Jessica Pan