Balloons

I remember balloons.

I remember their beauty.

I remember the plethora of colors.

Today they are much more fancy, all metallic and crinkly, bent and squeezed into funny shapes.

But I don’t like balloons.

Because in 1973, me and my best friend at the time were sitting on her living room floor blowing up balloons.

We were little things, no older than three, you see.

And my friend, she blew up her balloon and it popped in her face.

And she screamed, her scream louder than the loudest fire or police siren.

And I haven’t been the same since.

I remember balloons.

I remember their beauty.

I remember the joy they bring.

But some 40 years later, the terrifying scream still rings in my head.

So I admire them from afar.

From Women of Color Writing Workshop, December 28, 2012… 

Writing prompt: Memory lane: Use one of the following sentences as the first line in your story.

I remember learning.

I remember biting

I remember balloons.

I remember falling.

Afterword

That is actually a true story. I don't like balloons AT ALL. And it all stems from that incident way back then when I was 3 years old.

I've been able to steer clear of balloons for the most part. I have been at parties over the years where people start popping them. I don't bust out crying, but I think back to that time so long ago.

I know one time, back in 1996, my boyfriend surprised me with a bunch of balloons for Valentines day. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I didn't want them. I remember leaving his place with all those balloons in the back seat of my car. I was completely unnerved. I took them home and left them in the living room. (I had a small place, but I stayed out of the living room for the most part). I threw them away one by one as they deflated.

But there was this one lone balloon... a big metallic heart shaped one with the words "I Love You" in big red cursive letters splayed across both sides. That sucker would not go down.

And it would float all over my little place.

I'd wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and I'd run right into it.

I'd wake up in the morning, and it would be there in the bedroom.

Just floating.

And I would walk around it. Way around it.

My boyfriend, when he was over, would holler "That's a good balloon right there! That one holds the helium."

"Uh yeah," I'd mumble.

"I'll have to remember that the next time I buy you some balloons!"

O_O

LOL

That balloon finally went down. I remember throwing it away. Happily.

He didn't buy me balloons again. Thank goodness for that.

Ay yes. One of my phobias. Not rushing to get over that one unless I get a job blowing up balloons or something like that.

Then I'll work on it.

 Otherwise, it was good for a writing prompt subject!