In the late 1980s, I was obsessed with a short French film called The Red Balloon.
My mom had gotten me the VHS because she wanted me to be more worldly. I knew nothing about its artistic significance. I didn’t know it had been made in 1956 or won an Oscar. I just knew the film memorized me when I watched it.
It was about a little boy who finds a red balloon that seems to have a mind of its own. It follows him through the streets of Paris like a friend.
And at 4 years old, I had one major takeaway...
Red balloons might have magic powers.
A couple years later, I would have to put that theory to the test.
Original Art by Lux Art XD
My buddy Justin was one of my best friends. He had red hair that fell into his eyes and this strangely sophisticated energy for a kid in kindergarten. He was kind, smart, complimentary. While the rest of us boys were slowly becoming little jerks, Justin somehow seemed above it.
We also played soccer together. I was the striker. Justin played defense. And, not to brag, I was incredible. But besides the love of the beautiful game, I had another incentive. Every game my grandfather promised me one crunchy Taco Bell taco for every goal I scored, so naturally I was out there playing like my financial future depended on it.
Nine goals. Ten goals. Twelve goals.
And every time I scored, the first kid running over to celebrate with me by my side was Justin.
Then one afternoon, my mom was driving me to a game when she looked at me in the rearview mirror.
“Pumpkin,” she said, “I need to tell you something about Justin. His dad passed away.”
I remember trying to understand what that even meant. A dad dying seemed impossible to me then. I kept thinking about Justin. Was he scared? Did he miss talking to his dad? Was his dad somewhere missing him too?
I wanted to fix it.
After the game, I couldn’t stop thinking about The Red Balloon.
Then it clicked.
“Mom, can you get me a red balloon?”
She asked why.
“Well, if I need to get a message to Justin’s dad in heaven, I probably need something that can get it up there.”
To her credit, my mom didn’t blink. She drove me to the party store, and moments later, we arrived back home with a balloon full of helium and a very small piece of paper so the note wouldn’t weigh it down.
I wrote as small as I could.
I don’t remember the exact words anymore, but I remember the message:
Sorry you died. Hope heaven is great. Justin is a great kid. You don’t have to worry.
I folded the paper into the tiniest square I could, tied it to the string, and my mom opened the window.
I let go.
The balloon rose above the house, then over the roof, then higher and higher until eventually I couldn’t see it anymore.
And suddenly I felt this enormous sense of relief.
The message had been sent.
So, I did the only logical thing left to do.
I went downstairs, popped The Red Balloon into the VCR, and started thinking about the next time I would see Justin.
I couldn’t wait to tell him the good news.
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