Morning
It’s 2:45 am and I’m standing in front of a housing co-op waiting for an Uber to the airport. A cool, delicate, and delicious mist dampens my backpack just enough to make me wonder if I’m imagining that it’s wet at all.
A man pushing a rickety grocery cart is headed my way. His cart clunks at each seam and wrinkle in the sidewalk and I wonder if my standing there with no purpose will make him uncomfortable.
He’s being trailed by a golden mylar balloon with a four-leaf pattern on it and I wonder why he has adopted it. Will he try to sell it, or does it just make him happy?
A coin falls and he’s casting his flashlight about as the balloon slips, unmoored, floating past the power lines into the night sky.
He abandons the coin.
“You taking this?” he asks inspecting the two recycling bins on the curb. “No. Help yourself,” I say. He rumages but takes nothing. The bin has already been picked over. As he straightens, I say, “Nothing good?” He mumbles something unintelligible, then “have a good night” as I’m saying “have a good morning.”
I lift my gaze to the sky for the balloon, but it’s gone. I watch as the man slowly bumps his cart along his way.