Stalled, half-spent, a balloon bouquet rustles, snagged in our pine tree.
“Party!” it must have recently signaled from somebody’s mailbox. Before it was stranded.
I recognize that wilted, half-mast look. I’m my husband’s caregiver, post-surgery—wishing I could muster something so buoyant as we navigate recovery’s prickly demands.
I didn’t expect to deflate so soon.