I just watched “The Red Balloon” again. And, just as with every other time, I cried. It’s such a beautiful, simple little movie about a boy and his balloon. But to me, it’s so much more. Because the boy reminds me so much of my son Joe as a young boy. The haircut. The way he runs. And the simplistic way that he carries himself. That’s Joe. It always has been. To this day, he doesn’t ask for much from life. And he will always give more than he gets.
The other reason the movie resonates with me is because of Joey’s special relationship to balloons. Which even he probably doesn’t remember. But Joey, at some point as a young boy, developed a fear. Of losing, of all things, balloons. Every time he had one, he had an almost irrational fear of losing it, of letting it go, of having it blow away. To the point that his fears started to carry over into other things. So, like all concerned parents, we decided we needed some professional help. And Joey got over it. And he’s just fine now.
Only, every time I see this movie, I cry. I think of my little son, and how worried he was about losing something that was, in the big scheme of things, so small. And yet, to him, it was oh so big. I cry for him - and I cry for me. Because every time I see that movie, I’m reminded of my little son, my first son, who was oh so small, and so innocent. And now, he’s a grown man. Which must mean that I’m rapidly approaching being an old man.
I’d kill for a red balloon that never flew away. And for children that never grew up. And for time to just stand still. But I’m grateful for the memories. And I deal with the tears. Anyone have a tissue?
