Not quite dusk yet but instead painted with a light yellow was the sky. Every day the little girl would step out on the same spot on the porch wearing a red dress. She would hold a helium balloon in her hand gently and look up at its own colour of red. She would hold it high which meant everyone in the neighbourhood could see its magnificence, striking out from the melancholy. They couldn’t see her nor her red dress laced with sadness. All they saw was this fleeting piece of rubber escaping with pride.
What they didn’t know was what this balloon held each day. Sometimes a note, sometimes a toy, sometimes a feeling, sometimes a ploy. She wanted to set things free and this was her only way. A carefully folded note that came from her best friend filled with gossip that no one else should see. An old little toy that was outcasted by the rest of the assembly. A piece of her mother’s hair, the only thing that could escape. She would carefully choose these things one day at a time; trapping them in the balloons to set them free forever. Where they flew no one knew of course. Where and how they ended up no one knew of course.
Red spots hide all across her city now. A little girl’s freedom marked on a map, for those who dare to seek it. But so were her possessions; left to tell their story or speak their sadness, I cannot say.