Short Story: The Balloon
The old lady lay in the hospital bed, almost lost amidst the expansive white, metal-framed bed. Her body was frail and light, her arms withered and wrinkled. Yet, her face remained smooth, completely devoid of wrinkles, except for the vertical crease between her eyebrows, a result of constant furrowing while reading. The old lady loved to read, but her eyes had gradually failed her, and even stronger prescription glasses couldn’t help anymore. She was ninety-eight years old.
She gave up on reading, put down P. G. Wodehouse’s 'Aunts Aren't Gentlemen,' and looked around the room. There were bunches of flowers on the windowsill, leftovers from the weekend visits. Her nieces and their children had come to visit. She had no family of her own; she lived her life as a nun, first in a convent, and then in civilian life after the convent was dissolved in 1948.
One bouquet particularly appealed to her. Although the flowers were beginning to wilt, the attached purple balloon still held up. Every draft that came through the corridor made it dance a little, as if trying to break free. Her niece had mentioned that her children insisted on the balloon. She smiled, thinking of the twinkling-eyed, blonde twins. It was wonderful to see life rolling forward, from generation to generation.
She felt sorry for the balloon. It clearly wanted to escape. While the flowers wilted, the balloon danced even more. Its helium-filled purple yearned towards the window every time a draft stirred it.
The old lady tried to get out of bed. It was a struggle; she was very weak. She moved slowly and carefully, and when she finally reached the window, she grasped the cold brass handle. She struggled for a while to turn it, but eventually succeeded. Then she untangled the balloon's purple ribbon, holding it tight so it wouldn’t rise to the ceiling – from there, she wouldn’t be able to pull it back. She used to be tall enough to reach, but her body had shrunk considerably over the years. Only her hands and feet remained disproportionately large. She never understood why.
The draft from the window made the purple balloon dance frantically. Just like a dog on a leash, it tugged and pulled at its thin ribbon.
‘It's okay, it's okay,’ she whispered to it. ‘You'll be free soon! Just a little patience.’
She shortened the balloon’s ribbon so she could easily release it through the window. For a moment, she watched the purple balloon dance in the wind, then she opened her palm.
The balloon finally broke free. It began to soar rapidly with the wind, flipping joyfully in farewell.
The old lady slowly shuffled back to her bed and stared out of the window after the balloon for a long time. Although it was long out of sight, she enjoyed imagining where it might be.
By the time the nurse brought dinner, the old lady had passed away. She had slipped away peacefully. There was a bustle around her hospital bed, but she no longer cared.
Riding the southern winds, the balloon traveled to the first district and flew over the house where the old lady had lived for decades. Then it turned north, passing over the bank where she had worked, punctually arriving every day at half-past seven. She was never late.
The wind changed direction, taking the balloon northwest, soaring over the convent where she was raised. It continued all the way to the border. It observed her old childhood home, fluttered over the orchard where new trees had replaced the old, paused momentarily over the empty chicken coop, and then got caught in a vortex that lifted it higher and higher. Just then, a little girl in a frilly skirt and her mother stepped out of the post office. The little girl spotted the balloon and exclaimed,
‘Look, Mom! There's a balloon! It's such a beautiful color!’
The little girl and her mother watched the balloon until it became a tiny speck, disappearing into the vast blue sky.
The little girl laughed. She was happy. She felt that the balloon was finally free.
– Eszter
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