I have a vivid memory from a time before I was five, probably. My parents and I are walking out of one of those obnoxious kid restaurants and I have a red balloon tied loosely around my wrist.
I remember feeling so proud of my balloon. It’s color just right, illuminated by the sun. The mystery of it’s weightlessness holding magic and joy.
And then, mysteriously, it slipped itself from my wrist and I stood, frozen as watching my balloon float high overhead. Out of reach. And eventually out of sight.
I remember standing on the side walk, my body felt hollow and cold and my heart literally ached. I sobbed. I felt tiny and powerless. I felt hopeless. All the magic and wonder I held in my tiny hand only moments before was drifting, ever so slowly out of view and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
And my parents. The ones, who at that time in my life, were all knowing and all powerful, seemed unimpressed by the weight of my loss. They continued on with their conversation, brushing aside my grief (not that I was ever keen for the dramatic) to usher me into the car and on our way.
Yesterday, Leo and I sat across form a group of court advisors and listened helplessly as they discussed all of the possible solutions for Cordelia’s case. We were an afterthought, you know, if all else fails. And that’s when I remember that feeling. Like I’ve lost my red balloon. And the people with the power, well, they just don’t seem concerned that my heart is breaking. They’ve got more business to attend to and my attachment to this child is no less frivolous than the attachment I had to that balloon so many years ago.
I’m working hard on having the right attitude. But sometimes, I just wish that I could defy the inevitable and will a change in the direction of the wind.