Your Heart Is Not Where I Am

You stepped into the house, passing by us in your gray coat, and remarked, "If your balloon is up on the ceiling again, I will pop it." You stepped forward, then caught my eye as I stood unblinking. You said, "Do you understand?" I said yes.

You went upstairs to change clothes; I shared my brother's enjoyment of his toy--something gelatinous-- while I released my balloon.

You came down the stairs and immediately noted me, a six-year-old with her hands behind her back, looking at you with confidence of a retrieval of my purple balloon from its slow maneuvering against the ceiling. I observed You as You stood on the stepladder, and I followed you as You brought my balloon to the kitchen counter. There, You held the purple balloon down and opened the knife drawer. I watched, even as I blinked, You raise the knife and stab my purple balloon. It became purple tatters to be swept off into the garbage.

I didn't cry, that weekend; I unclasped my hands and walked to my brother to share his toy.

Sometimes a balloon is the heart of a six-year-old. Sometimes a heart rises and is knifed. Where was your heart?