Balloons

I knew she’d been feeling depressed, so I didn’t want to fight anymore. I couldn’t help myself, snapping back at her, sometimes; even though it never did any good. She was snappish because of a chemical imbalance, not because of me, so I shouldn’t take it personal all the time. I should just be happy we’re alive and hope things get better. They will get better. I try to have a positive attitude, always.

When I heard about the church picnic, I said let’s go. We hadn’t been to church in a long time because of her depression, but a picnic might be a way to start going again. Me and the kids could form a circle around her, so she won’t have to talk to anyone if she doesn’t want to. I’ll even make the potato salad. It’ll do her good to see people having a good time, and it’s church, so maybe, somehow, someone, or something will bless her.

At last, she agreed. What bad could ever come from a church picnic?

When we arrived, a parishioner dressed in a clown costume was there to hand everyone a balloon. A blank note card was tied to each. The kids ran over to the helium tank, breathed the helium, and started talking in squeaky voices. An occasional balloon would escape, some children would cry out in anguish, others would bury their grief, but in every case, the clown replaced the runaway until the stocks ran out. At last, the pastor called everyone to the folding chairs they had set up in a field.

We sat on the chairs, rickety on the uneven ground. Clutching our balloons, we turned our faces to the pastor. The potluck dishes drew flies. Burgers smoked on the grill. Neighborhood dogs supervised. Paper plates and napkins began to stir in the breeze, but there was praying to be done. First things first, the pastor explained. We were to write a prayer on the notes tied to the balloons and, at a signal, everyone would release them together as if we were sending up prayers to God.

Everyone thought this was a fine idea, even though both the theology and the cosmology were suspect. No one objected to balloon releases on environmental grounds; we were ready to eat. We got busy with our notes. I prayed for her. Then, I glanced around wondering what everyone was writing. My wife bent to her note; she seemed to be writing a book. I tried to see, but her handwriting was small and difficult to understand at a distance. At her feet, her balloon had lost its air. I went to get another balloon, but they had run out. I picked it up and tied it and her note to mine. She didn’t say anything.

When everyone’s note had been written, the pastor orchestrated a simultaneous release of all the balloons. My daughter had to be coaxed to let go of hers, but once she did, she was delighted to behold, as everyone was, the magical flight of the heavenly host. I even felt that old worshipful feeling and I hoped my wife did, too.

With its extra burden, my balloon lagged behind the rest, so I could easily watch it as it ascended. I thought I had done a beautiful thing. I was so full of love for my wife, I would gladly have given up anything for her. I took her in my arms and gave her a soulful kiss; but the kiss she returned had no soul at all.

The pastor dismissed us from our prayers, and we sprang to the food. The kids and I had a great time at the picnic, although my wife barely said a thing to anyone.

Later, the meats consumed, the kids passed out exhausted in the back seat, we drove home. She turned out to the side window. I started a conversation by asking, “What did you write on your note card?” I thought I might be able to help it come true.

“You didn’t notice anything, did you?” she sulked.

“What was I supposed to notice?”

“I’m mad at you,” she told the side window. “I’m mad you took my balloon like that.”

A single, injudicious laugh escaped from me. “Why?”

She turned to me, abruptly fierce.

“You just take over, and you don’t ask me.”

“I don’t get it. Your balloon was out of gas, so I let it hitch a ride with mine. Isn’t that what marriage is all about? I thought I was doing a nice thing.”

“You think I like being tied to you?”

“This isn’t just about the balloons, is it?”

She studied side window some more. “This balloon thing just symbolizes what is wrong with us.”

“There’s nothing wrong with us, my love.”

“Stop saying that, and I don’t belong to you.”

“But you’re my wife.”

“Mine, mine, mine,” she said. “Don’t you think I get tired of being your possession? Can’t you just call me by my name?”

“I’m sorry.” I added, deliberately, “Sharon.”

“It’s just that I feel guilty, depending on you all the time. I just want to stand on my own two feet, for once.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty. I don’t mind supporting you. In sickness and in health, you know.”

“Don’t tell me what to feel. I can feel guilty if I want.”

“OK, feel guilty. Go ahead, knock yourself out.”

“You want to know what I put on my prayer card? I prayed to leave you, so I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about depending on you anymore. That’s what I put.”

I had no way of knowing, but at that very moment, our balloons were caught in a tree and wouldn’t be going anywhere.