I visited with my mom again last night. We were sitting side by side, our arms crossed and hands folded neatly on an iridescent countertop, sipping on Diet Pepsis in tall, frosted glasses with extra ice, of course. She was striking, with her endless blue eyes and chestnut hair. I reached out and touched her fingers, my hand intent on holding hers as we giggled and moved even closer, whispering those secret words we will share for all of eternity.
We were sitting on high counter stools, our feet unable to reach the floor beneath us. I have always dreamed in color, and attached to the back of mom’s stool was a large, brilliant orange balloon; filled with helium and swaying to and fro.
“I finally found your balloon,” she said. I asked her why, after all of these years, she had persisted in searching for that balloon and she leaned toward me, placing her head upon my shoulder. Together, we journeyed back to that day so long ago. Monson’s Market. High Street School. The paper mache project. My tears. Her tears. The orange balloon.
My mother had picked me up for lunch break that day, and on our return we stopped at Monson’s Market so that I could buy a large, packaged and deflated balloon that was needed for my paper mache creation. For five cents, I was able to make my purchase. Though a blue balloon would have been my preference, the only color remaining was orange.
Mom was surprised to see me waving that brazen color at her as I climbed back into the car. “They must have been all out of blue,” she said. We pulled up in front of those long, wooden High Street School steps and I opened the car door quickly, the balloon held tightly in my left hand. For some reason, as I turned to close Mom’s car door, the balloon slipped from my hands and landed at my feet. I reached down to retrieve it with my left hand, holding onto the edge of the car with my right hand; my fingers curved around the door latch. Without a thought, my mother reached across the car seat and pulled the car door closed and my lingering hand was caught between the heavy car door and the side panel of the car.
In little girl fashion, I screamed! And, to this day, I believe my mother literally flew from the driver’s seat to my side, tenderly removing my wounded fingers from the folds of the door; kissing them and apologizing over and over. Amid the chaos, the balloon, wrapped tightly around its cardboard holder, made a miraculous escape — never to be seen again; until now.
Often, when I would tell my mother how much I loved her or thank her for her guidance and her love, she would look at me with a tired twinkle in her eye and say, “Even though I shut the car door on your fingers?” We would laugh then and I would assure her that yes, even though she closed the car door on my hand so long ago, she was the best.
The dream continued as dreams do; a swirl of words and images I will never recall. Just moments before I awoke, Mom handed me that long elusive orange balloon, angel-kissed my fingers, and slipped away; back to that place where dreams sustain us until we meet again.
Belinda Ouellette lives in Connor TWP with her husband and their Goldendoodle, Barney Rubble. You may contact Belinda at dbwouellette@ maine.rr.com.
