michael murray

Last Friday we had a little party to help celebrate a friend’s birthday.

One of the results of this is that we now have a bunch of balloons in the apartment. Like some alien tribe of jellyfish, they’re clustered together in the living room, as if feeding off of some nutrient on the ceiling. When you walk through the room it’s like you’re cutting through brush, having to move the tail-like strings that fall into your path out of the way. It’s fun, this, and it never fails to make me feel like I’m participating in some sort of adventure.

Slowly, over the course of the week, the balloon’s numbers have began to dwindle-- some to domestic accidents, others to age. As the helium escapes and the balloon slowly sinks to the floor, our Miniature Dachshund will immediately set upon it, as if it was some predator invading her den. And so, the remaining balloons have the appearance of survivors, of creatures clinging to life.

Yesterday, while I was sitting in the bedroom doing some work, a purple balloon floated in through the door. This was the first time such a thing had happened, and I was a little bit startled. The balloon bobbed up and down by the ceiling, as if a ghost watching me at the desk.

A friend once told me about an experience he had in which he was convinced that a spirit of a recently deceased friend was contained within a balloon that drifted into his room. The balloon went to my friend and lingered there, and then after five minutes, the balloon expired and drifted to the floor.

An old friend of mine is dying right now, and I had this story in mind as I watched the balloon enter into my bedroom.

After a spell, this balloon drifted toward the center of the room where a rotating fan spun from the ceiling. Its’ string got caught on one of the blades of the fan and the balloon was being violently bounced against the ceiling in a jarring cycle. I immediately leapt up, and freed the balloon from the fan, taking it out onto our semi-enclosed balcony above Queen Street and leaving it there.

As silly as it sounds, I didn’t want to part with the balloon. If it drifted away into the city, fine, but if it stayed, well, that would please me even more. After about ten minutes had passed I heard a scream from out on the street. I went out onto the balcony and saw a street sign lying on the pavement and a few excited pedestrians talking to a police officer.

A moment of drama that had just eluded me.

It was at this point that I remembered the balloon. I looked all over for it, but it was gone. I spent the rest of the day trying to shake a settling sadness, waiting for a phone call that never came.