The Balloon

Carolyn Scott

The sky was purple - a violet shade almost. It looked mystical, and like something out of a fairytale or cartoon. Childish. It glowed with a warmth that brought calm and security amid the cool winter morning. The clock read 7.00am; I did not quite know how I had awoken. My head was empty apart from the occasional recollections of distant dreams. The details of the night before came to me slowly - a slideshow upon my eyelids, a soundtrack tapping on my eardrums.

I had to be at work by 8.30am and was rather sure my head had not hit the pillow until at least 4am, yet the exact details of the evening before were still held in a misty memory. I felt surprisingly alert, and for a while lay still and calm, held by the purple glow, letting the slideshow roll on and the soundtrack continue to beat.

The colour of the sky was slowly transformed, as if a drop of pink dye had been injected into the dawn air, moving slowly over the vast clear expanse of the atmosphere. It reminded me of watching old chemistry experiments at school, watching as a drop of one substance would slowly combine with another to fill the dusty beaker with new vibrant colours. Just as this memory was forming in my mind, something briefly caught my eye and pulled me from nostalgia. It was quick and darting, I was not sure if it was a creation of my own mind. A whirling movement of bright red flashing across the sky. The sudden motion, juxtapositioned against its calm, now pinkening, background brought me to my senses and I clambered my way out of the warm cocoon my duvet had created.

As I walked down Blair Street the sun was just beginning to light the tops of the ancient Edinburgh buildings. I had always loved the way the sun slowly made its way down the old bricks one row at a time, each row waiting patiently in slumber to be awoken by the delicate heat of the sun's rays.

I enjoyed my little walks, standing on the shadows of my own feet, the sun on my back, watching the shadows get smaller and smaller until they disappeared under my odd shoes. That childlike battle to catch your own shadow. I drew my attention away from my feet as I approached my favourite part of this regular journey. I turned round looking down the street and watched the sun rise fully, lighting the distant sea that could just be seen between the ancient buildings of the Royal Mile. The colours on this particular morning seemed more vivid and entrancing than usual. Just as I was falling deep into my own imagination something once again caught my eye and pulled me quickly and abruptly from my little dreamland. Just as before, I couldn't quite tell what it was, a dashing movement of bright, vibrant red.

I turned quickly looking up into the now turquoise sky. As I turned the sun hit my eyes and shot through my head. When my vision returned, and the bright dots darting across my eyes like flying saucers faded, I finally saw what it was that had startled me - on two occasions now!

Dancing erratically across the sky, held afloat by the typical Edinburgh winds I had grown to adore was a little red balloon, pulling behind it a shiny white chord. The sight of it created within me the most spectacular variety of emotions; excitement, awe, wonderment, nostalgia and that great sense that there was magic in the air. It reminded me of being a child, going to fairs and highland shows. I would always beg my parents to buy me a "magic balloon that could float like the clouds" and after five joyful minutes I would release the silky string from my tight youthful grasp to watch as it danced across the sky to join those floating, marshmallow clouds. But for a brief moment I felt a slight sadness.

As a child I had loved to release these plastic bubbles of gas into the wind and watch them rise, but was always aware of the honest sadness so many other children experienced as they lost their grasp on that silky string and watched their prized possession disappear into the unknown. It's fate decided by the perplexing winds flowing over the land. I thought that this balloon that had now pulled me into its motion could well be one of those prized possessions that had escaped from a small, sad, sweaty hand. I still couldn't help but smile though, there was something mesmerising about the way this balloon moved.

As it bobbed along George IV Bridge, guided by the top of the library, I found myself following it, eyes fixed on its sway.

I walked staring to the sky, on an adventure, a chase, my adventure. I tried hard to use my peripheral vision to avoid the dangers of lamp posts, bus stops and the morning commuters who would occasionally glance at me, puzzled, as I walked slowly eyes pinned on the balloon. I followed the balloon down onto the Meadows and found myself a bench in the sun on which to rest for a moment. I lit up a cigarette and lay my head back watching the balloon dance above me for a while. As I stubbed the cigarette out on the heel of my shoe the balloon began its ascent, shrinking slowly into the sky. I lay there for a while before strolling through the meadows to work.

For the rest of the day I smiled, nostalgia crept in and warm memories formed endlessly and stayed with me until I lay my head down to sleep that evening. All because of a little red balloon, or maybe it was just because I knew the next evening I'd be resting my head in a different bed and waking to celebrate Christmas.