Ode to the Balloon from Grandpa’s Birthday

The evening sun is drowning behind the hill

as children beam and smile in a park up the street,

chanting each other’s names in their merry games-

celebrating some special day-

You begin to float up and away from her hand-

maybe you broke the grip or she let you go,

I’ll never know.

Her eyes follow as you sway into a sky

stroked like the veins of his feeble hand-

life receding from streaks of purple, red, and pink

while gray clouds are gashed across it like his scars:

from partitions, wars, and all those stories time never let unfold.

As she begins to lose faith,

I pray you meet all my losses and my unheard prayers

in the ruins of hope-

from every time I had reached to the sky for answers

with a hand outstretched like hers into the navy horizon-

trying to hold the dying light in a palm.

Between the sounds of celebration,

you dissolve into the night sky-

she watches for you in the stars

before they tell her it’s time to leave and let go-

maybe you broke the grip or she let you go,

she’ll never know.