Let Go

On the way home from work on Tuesday, I witnessed a tragedy.

It was a gloriously sunny day. A mother and her child were walking along the pavement. The mother was holding some shopping bags. She was also holding what was obviously a recently-purchased balloon.

It was one of those helium-filled foil balloons in the shape of something interesting. I think this balloon was in the shape of a crocodile. I imagine it was bought for the child. Children, on the whole, are more interested in balloons than adults are (though there is the occasional exception).

He was happy, that child. He had a balloon. His mother was happy, because her child was happy. The sun was shining, the crocodile was floating, I'd finished work, and everything was right with the world.

But then, suddenly but really slowly, the balloon somehow detached itself from its ribbon and began to float away. The mother had been rearranging her bags. This jostling must have set the balloon loose.

The crocodile was free and flying. Neither the mother nor the child had noticed.

But I had noticed.

What could I do? The moment the balloon had unshackled itself, it was all over. You can't put the genie back in the bottle (or "lamp"). You can't re-string a crocodile. 

I wanted to help. I really did. But I was too far away. Even if I'd have sprinted and dived (dove? diven? Dave?), there was no way of me catching it.

I could have shouted something. Maybe I should have. But it was all happening so fast. Even a quick "Hey!" would have been no good. She would have been confused. I could have simply shouted "Balloon!", but that might have been taken as praise rather than a warning.

The chance floated away.

Of course, as with the death of a family member, the true tragedy did not come at the moment of departure, but the moment of realisation.

The mother looked at the ribbon. She realised the crocodile was missing. She was confused. Had it stuck to her back? Had it accidentally got trapped in one of her bags?

The child realised too. Where had it gone?

They both looked back where they'd come from. That's what you do if you lose something. If you drop a cardigan or snowboarding magazine, you retrace your steps. It will be on the floor.

But balloons don't work that way. A lost balloon is lost forever. You can't retrace those steps unless you have a big ladder and climb like the dickens.

They looked back. They looked forward. How could this have happened? Just now they were in a helium-filled haze of happiness. Now the symbol of their joy had vanished into thin air.

I couldn't watch. It was too much to bear. I could have told them where the balloon had gone, but what good would that have done?

"Up there!" I heard the child exclaim. He must have looked up to see the celebratory reptile receding into the afternoon sky. And there was nothing they could do.

I don't know what the aftermath was. I hope the child was philosophical about the whole thing. The mother must have been quite put out. Those balloons are expensive. Would she have gone back to the party shop? Would she complain about a lax knot-job? Would the shop staff believe her, or would they think she was taking part in some inflatable extortion scam?

I hope it was all amicable. I hope the mother found solace. I hope the child wasn't upset. I hope the lack of balloon didn't have a lasting impact on their day. I hope that, when they turned up to whatever party they were going to, carrying only a ribbon, they were greeted with sympathy and cake.

More than anything, I wonder what that balloon is doing now.

Perhaps, in the sky above Jericho, a similar small child was sitting, bored on a plane, when out of the corner of her eye she spotted a crocodile fly past the window.

"Dad! I just saw a crocodile!" she might say.

"I believe you," he might reply. Then he'd take her hand in his, and she'd realise that their new life in England was going to be all right after all.

***

I now have two balloon anecdotes where not much happens. One more and I've got an Edinburgh show.