One Red Balloon

Andrea and me, 1980-something.  Photograph by Marsh.

I dreamt I walked
down a steep cobblestone
moss-caulked lane
on a wet, stone-gray day

wrapped deep
in layers against
a brutal spring
wind

someplace lavishly dismal
like Dublin or Duluth.

All that was ever needed
to sink deep
into that limp perfection
so needed in letting go
was there:

wet stone,
black gas-lit
street lamps,
rain-slick bone
trees beginning to break
into delicate green
tears.

I felt Andrea near
as North Central Texas
ever was—those long drives
down gravel lanes
carrying us both away
from what were then
two broken lives.

Better to be broken together
than alone apart.

We listened to George Michael
and sang in empty grain silos.

I know that doesn’t seem to go together.
Nothing did for either of us then.

Andrea, I found you one day ice skating
across a linoleum floor
in your tiny kitchen
dreaming of a better life
in Minnesota
which you one day finally owned
with Marsh.

Again, I was walking
down that wet
cobblestone lane
on a brutal Dublin-like
Duluth-day,
cold as hell, wanting
to get home,
and to the right
was a small stone wall on this side
that dropped dizzily far
to where the road curved back
on itself below.

If I hopped it, I could cut out part of my journey.
I thought about it. But the retaining wall was so slick
I hesitated, picturing myself plunging.

Andrea, it’s as if you know
in ways small to painfully grand
we are plunging

Yes, plunging--

in grief, in tears and mudslides,
avalanches, really—of memories, pain,
sorrow, joy beyond belief for the privilege
and opportunity to have known you--

When I looked back up again
to begin my journey—

There on the farthest lamppost
before the switchback
a red helium balloon bobbed
in the rain tied to steel
with pink ribbon.

Andrea, I knew it was from you.
A sign. A token.
Something small
not to be forgotten,
and that I was not the only one
to receive one.

I think you were feeling like a child again
pretending to be the Easter bunny
while playing Peter Gabrielle
on that little baby-blue boombox of yours,
and I know you had a message for Marsh
(or Marshal as you used to say
singling him out from the rest of us with his full name
perhaps before you even knew you were doing it.)

Rest your head
You worry too much
It's going to be alright
When times get rough
You can fall back on us
Don't give up
Please don't give up

There are, I believe,
balloons of one sort or another
placed here and there
to touch, to taste
to smell, to hear,
to reassure us

when the time
and the light
are right.

Red balloons matter.
Don’t wish them away.
They are every bit as important
as stone-gray days receptive
to owning one’s own pain.