balloons
April 1, 2009
Timmy held a gallop of balloons, wild in the wind and straining to be free.
“No, no, no,” he sighed, exasperated. These balloons had a job to do, and he would see to it that they did.
Timmy scrummed his fingers even tighter, and ignored the itch which had appeared, unannounced, on his bulbous red nose.
Balloons always meant a child was about to be happy. And Timmy delighted in being a happiness giver.
Suddenly, a thought bubble appeared, to his astonishment.
“But balloons are forgotten almost as easily as they are received.”
Timmy frowned. Perhaps the happiness had been his, all the while?
Timmy loved balloons.
He watched as one glided away.
“Oh,” he said, secretly smiling.
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