The Balloon Has Flown, We Have Grown
We warmed the bench with cold stares,
holding onto yesterday’s glass of champagne.
A boy cried somewhere,
loosening his grip on a balloon
that slipped into a sky that never looks back.
Should I pity a crying child,
or an adult swallowing storms in silence?
“I should go,” she said, and
I found my hand reaching for hers,
like a child clinging to his mother
as she nears the grocery counter too soon,
hoping time would stall,
hoping something small could still be saved.
But some things are no-brainers,
inevitable as gravity,
the balloon has flown,
belonging now to no one,
or maybe to everything but us.
The child stopped crying
when his mother placed a bar of chocolate
into his waiting hands.
And I envied him,
because how does a child receive sweetness after sorrow,
while an adult is handed a weapon
and told to be brave instead of held?
No chocolate, no comfort,
just something sharp enough
to silence the trembling.
I guess that’s why
I stand where I stand,
not as someone to be soothed,
but as someone to be used.
I guess
I really am
His favorite soldier.
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