Propinquity of the Yellow Balloon

July 2013

I walk by the river. 

I get an idea. I type it to myself on my phone, to follow up later.  I think of a friend.  I send a text message, eyes fixed on my device.  I walk the path, peripheral vision engaged to avoid stumbling.  Motley shadows from leafy sentries obscure my screen.  I know I see better with my back to the sun.  Must shift direction.  I keep clicking on numbers as I feel the rise of a hill beneath my feet.  I can’t look up.  I’m too busy capturing thoughts in fragments of snatched letters: often random.  I pause.  Look up.

A yellow balloon is caught in the high branches of an old tree.  How unexpected!  Something colourful and full of hope: caught.  Trapped in a tangle of twigs, it quivers yet is stuck.  Sunlight glances off the shiny surface, scattering golden light.  I stop walking to arc my neck further back:  to see further up. There is a bird’s nest in the uppermost branches of another tree.  It’s empty.  The birds have flown: their home installation art now left to the elements of weather and time.

The shapes of leaves, outlined by blue sky sparkle with reflected light.  My neck aches. Galahs squawk.  Flashes of pink and grey collide with yellow.  Rubbing my neck, I glance at the curve of green hill, littered with splintered browns and shredded ghost gum greys.

I notice shadows and then bodies attached, ambling happily through a sunny day.  I smile at a stranger who smiles back.  I put the phone on silent and drop it in my pocket.  I walk.  Look down.  I see an oddly shaped stone.  I pick it up, cradling the smooth surface in my hand and decide I should have a phone-free day once a week.  I think of you, dressed in yellow; scattering golden light as you quiver in places unexpected, waiting to be discovered.  Remember.  I think of you and remember.

I carry you with me, deep within my pocket, at the bottom of my footfall, in every cloud that brushes by… (Kylie Johnson).