I have a pretty set morning routine: get up, wash face, brush teeth, brush hair. Feed the cats; then go outside to take food to the crows and feed the chickens. This all happens before I've had my morning tea.
This morning I'm coming back to the house, thinking of tea and breakfast, and something registers as being A Little Different. There's something purple and shiny in my azaleas.
If I were Neil Gaimen, I could write a short story about this. About whatever celebration needed Mylar balloons. The howl of a child as his balloon escaped and went floating free. And how did it get split open along the seam? Did it relish its freedom and, like Icarus, find its own doom, soaring too high until the air inside over expanded, split the seam, and it fell to its doom?
I pull it out of the bush, intending to toss it into the trash, but instead I just look at it - shiny purple Mylar. I feel the tug of my inner Bob. Bob, who saved anything and everything because he might find a use for it, leaving me with dozens of boxes and bins and bags and a whole room and bigger barn filled with God Knows What But It Might Be Useful Someday. I should toss it. But somehow this stray piece of shiny purple has found its way into my hands. I see dragon scales, or maybe fairy wings. Its a gift of sorts. And, honestly, deflated, it's not very big.
I'm keeping it.
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