The Balloon Cart

Nobody minds this cart. That’s the point — nothing here is taken from you, and nothing is pressed on you. Pop one when you’re ready. Whatever rises was already yours.

Pop a balloon · the cart refills itself

• The smell of a kitchen where nobody was angry. You stood in the doorway and nothing was wrong.
• A song you forgot you loved, rising through the static — and you still knew every word before the chorus.
• The weight of a dog’s head on your knee, back when comfort didn’t need explaining.
• Summer pavement warm under bare feet, and nowhere you were supposed to be.
• Someone said your name gently once. It rises now, still gentle.
• The library corner where the light came in sideways and no one could find you — in the good way.
• The ceiling of a blanket fort, lit from inside. You built a world once, and it held.
• Rain on a car roof while someone else drove. You were allowed to just be carried.
• The exact blue of a sky you lay under doing absolutely nothing — and it counted.
• A hum from another room — the sound of being watched over without being watched.
• The first time you made someone laugh so hard they had to sit down. You did that.
• Cold lake water up to your ankles, and the dare you gave yourself to go one step further.
• A night-light’s small courage. It never fixed the dark. It stayed anyway. So did you.
• A page in a book you read as a kid that told you, in someone else’s words, you were not the only one.