18 October 2015 fiction, "Birthday Balloon"

It is my birthday, and in the back seat of the car is a single red balloon. It floats in the rearview mirror, partially deflated because it has been in this car for too long. It has wrinkled a little; along the thin bottom where it’s knotted I notice creased lines, as if it has aged while waiting. Every so often we hit a bump and the balloon sighs. 

I let my eyelashes dust my cheeks for a moment, and when I reopen them I glimpse my hands.

I glance over at my father with his aviator sunglasses, his hands resting on the steering wheel. When I look in the mirror, I see the same green eyes that I know are behind his mirrored lenses. In a moment of confusion, I attempt to place myself. I strain to hold my body to the car seat, to feel snug against the seatbelt that is too big.

Looking to my right, I see nothing but dust and highway, dust and highway. Everything is brown and small, and I am reminded of my butterscotch cupcake. Every rock looks eerily like a crumb. I am reminded of the way my mom delivered the cupcake to me—she smiled when I blew out the candle. And now all I really have to show for my birthday is one partially deflated balloon and some crumbs pushed off the plate and onto this highway.

With my eyes closed, I promise myself that everything will be all right, as long as I am not here alone. It is strange that my tiny sneakers don’t touch the floor, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I suppose if he isn’t worried than I shouldn’t be either.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

I think for a second, and then shake my head. “No.” It’s the first word I’ve said since we left the party. He’s been ceaselessly chattering for miles. I’m rubbing my arms, tapping my sneakers on the floor, but being cold is not the reason. It’s August, and hot. Why should I be cold in August? It’s my birthday, it’s sunny. I remember my mom holding nine balloons in her left hand as we walked out the front door. I clutched the red one in my right.  

It’s a shame I had to leave my birthday party. A shame that all the things happening today couldn’t melt into each other the way this car melts onto the road. Perhaps if they could, the balloon wouldn’t be sad, confused and deflated in the back seat. Perhaps it could be bright red and happy the way it usually is.

But instead, I am in this car, on this highway, with him. For now, we are silent, the balloon slowly breathing out all its air in the backseat. We are going somewhere, and coming from somewhere else, but for now we just float. He hasn’t told me that we will leave the balloon to rot in the car, but perhaps it’s because he’s already forgotten.