Deflate

When I taught English I would often have students desperate for extra credit in my class, or wracking their brains for a topic to write about in their writer's notebook. One option I would suggest was grabbing a dictionary off the shelf randomly choosing five words, and then picking one to write about. I can't say that I have ever actually done this myself. This evening I was staring at the computer screen, and off to the side was my lovely Oxford English Dictionary. I randomly chose five words: incadescent, preserve, stephanotis (a climbing plant), lucky, and deflate. Here is my dictionary writing:

All balloons deflate evenutally. Hot air balloons have to land on the ground and collapse at some point during their journey. Shiny metallic helium balloons from the flower shop might hold their steam for a week or more, but eventually they lie down for a rest on the floor. I have had the most experience with the deflation of regular latex balloons.

My daughter loves balloons. They make her day. She searches them out when we are shopping. When she was small and in her stroller, a bunch of balloons tied to a display in a department store would transfix her for at least a quarter of an hour. "Balloon" was, in fact, not her first, but one of her earliest words. And she still loves them. A helium balloon is a treasure, bouncing along the ceiling and floating away from room to room as she follows, catching and recatching it. Balloons that come to life with ordinary air will keep her busy for an entire afternoon. She rubs her hands on the exterior, making screeching sounds that prompt parents to put earplugs on their Christmas list. She squeezes the balloons, tosses them, wraps them up in blankets and pretends they are baby kittens.

But eventually the balloon begins to loose its sparkle. The tension of air inside the latex lessons. The balloon looks weak. It gets squishy. It gets smaller. And it begins to gross me out. I love elderly people, but I have no patience for aging latex balloons that land in the corner of my living room, or behind the couch only to shrink. I don't even like picking them up. The latex smells like a bad bathroom and gives me a headache. I begin to calculate the best way to transport the balloon into the garbage and out the door without my daughter noticing. The obvious thing to do would be to take care of the balloon while she is napping, but out of sight, out of mind. When she's napping, I am not thinking about rotten balloons. It seems that I do the most thinking about rotting balloons when they are being flung in my face and the stench is making my stomach queasy.

Eventually, a tantrum ensues. The joy of the balloon is gone. Using a scissors, I cut it up with vengence and drop it into the trash can. Although I feel little remorse for the balloon, my daughter weeps, and so I wrap her up in a quilt and we read a book or two together until she momentarily forgets about her loss, her spirit deflated until the surprise appearance of a shiny new balloon.