Yesterday in Leicester I saw a little boy lose a balloon. It sailed confidently into the sky, bright pink against dull grey, while his screams pierced the hearts of passers by.
I remember him again today, as I'm chopping eye-watering onions for a comforting soup, and I wonder what I would have done to console him if he'd been mine.
Would I have rushed to buy him another one, not quite the same, to quieten his cries?
Would I have wheeled him away in his push chair and decided that it was a good day to learn about loss?
Or would I have told him a story about the incredible adventures of the balloon that belonged to the air and to the eyes of everyone who saw it go by?
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