Eastern morning, and the rain rushing down in torrents feels like empty tombs would flood as fast as rabbit holes, on a morning like this. No scars in these white palms. No holes in this red heart. Stepped outside to stand in the downpour, my shirt sticking tight to my skin. My soles pressing down into the mud; mud can make the feet want to run, so I ran, kicking the water up in waves under my feet.
Running through the park, in that morning, in that rain. . . there was a balloonman giving away his balloons.
“To brighten the morning,” he said, as he handed me a balloon. I held it. Tightly, the string biting into my fingers, my hand. I looked at the balloon. I looked up at the rain falling down, soaking my face, flooding the toes, the heels, the soles of my feet.
I raised my hand and I loosened my grip and I threw my balloon at the sky.