Each time I see a balloon , my mind flies back to a memory when I was a six-year-old girl . It was a rainy Sunday and my father had recently died . I asked my mum if my dad had gone to heaven . " Yes , honey . Of course , " she said . " Can we write him a letter ? " She paused , the longest pause of my short life , and answered , " Yes . " My heart jumped . " Can the mailman go there ? " I asked . " No , but I have an idea . " Mum drove to a party store and returned with a red balloon . I asked her what it was for . " Just wait , honey . You'll see . " Mum told me to write my letter . Eagerly , I got my favorite pen , and poured out my six-year-old heart in the form of blue ink . I wrote about my day , what I learned at school , how Mum was doing , and even about what happened in a story I had read . For a few minutes it was as if Dad were still alive . I gave the letter to Mum . She read it over , and a smile crossed her face . She made a hole in the corner of the letter to tie it to the balloon . We went outside and she gave me the balloon . It was still raining . " Okay , on the count of three , let it go . One , two , three . " The balloon , carrying my letter , flew upwards against the rain . We watched until it was swallowed by the mass of clouds . Later I realized , like the balloon , that Dad had never let his sickness get him down . He was strong . No matter what he suffered , he'd keep on , fly up , and finally go beyond this cold world and his sick body . He rose into sky and became something beautiful . I watched until the balloon disappeared into the grey and white and I prayed that his strength was passed on . I prayed to be a balloon . In the eyes of the author , what was the rain like ?
An incurable disease . Her unforgettable memory . The pain her mother suffered . The hard time her father had .