Flutter

When my nephew was two, I bought him a bag of balloons. This was dangerous not because he experienced any of the perils listed on the package, but because he was unable to play with them independently, so they became his favorite toy. "Auntie, Auntie!" he�d say, handing me a saliva-soaked balloon, "Again!"

The rules of the game were easy. I�d sit while he stood anxiously in front of me, watching me blow up the balloon. When it was as full as I could get it, I�d ask him if he was ready. He�d crouch down like a sprinter, ready for the race to begin, and give me a grin and a nod. I�d release the balloon, which would fly around the room, noisily deflating as my nephew chased it around, grabbing wildly at the air and shrieking with delight. "Again!" he�d shout, retrieving the balloon from wherever it had landed.

The game continued until the balloon popped from the strain or I got a headache from constantly breathing new life into it.

My heart is like that balloon.