by Rachel McGladdery
The balloon’s popped.
I thought it would.
I could tell. it felt too full, it was too shiny for me and too saturated with colour.
I looked though, for tiny pinprick holes.
I put my face against the rubber and stopped my breath to feel any tiny leaks.
In checking it so very thoroughly, I must have inadvertantly scratched it with my scrabbling fingers, must have held it too tight to my chest lest it blow away, must have worn it thin with the constant caressing.
It’s gone, popped.
I cry so full of feeling the sound comes out fully three minutes after the inbreath. This hurts. This hurts. This hurts.
Rachel McGladdery lives in rural Lancashire with her partner, four children, two cats and a greenhouse.