I was around five years old when I had my first balloon, or at least the first I could remember. The beautiful spring day filled up with new flowers and a blank blue sky, along with several commercial buildings surrounding many suburban houses. Walking down the street, my mom pointed at the cars and stores. We made our way towards a nice little park where you went to play with slides and swings, the way other five year olds did.

I don't know how, but I remembered having a balloon in my hand. I was walking back to the house when I felt a tug from the balloon. I thought to myself, "It probably wanted to go up." I held the thin cheap string in my little young hand and I started to let it slip through my hand. I let it go and watched it start to slip through my fingers. It left my hand and went for the sky. I saw it leave. Higher and higher. Smaller and smaller. I stood along the concrete sidewalk staring at the sky, gazing at my little balloon flying high.

I didn't see what happened to it, but knowing logic it probably popped.