On walking out my door, I saw this balloon fluttering around on the other side of the street. Without thinking, I had my hand in my camera bag and began walking across the street (almost forgot to look for oncoming cars).
The 5 year old in me is perpetually fascinated by balloons. I always seem to notice them after the fact, when the celebration and festivities have ended… when they’ve seemingly outlived their usefulness.
Whenever I come across old balloons, it makes me a little sad to see their discarded shells, as though someone had their fill, and they no longer have any purpose. But at the same time, every balloon I see suggests an outburst of joy, of celebration.
What I love about old balloons is the validation that somewhere else in the world, people were smiling and happy once upon a time. And on finding them, I feel indescribably lucky that a small sliver of that happiness chanced its way to me. It’s like finding a love note that hasn’t quite finished saying all it’s got to say.
