It is whispered that any child who mistakes Drifloon for a balloon and holds on to it could wind
up missing
[evolves into] →
At dusk, swarms of them [Drifblim] are carried aloft on winds. When noticed, they suddenly
vanish
!50!!5!I wake and have the same fingers. Same body. Same aimless
gravity holding a child with growing hands. Not all my mistakes
!100!are mistakes. The hole I drilled in my bedroom wall
!50!!5!was not a mistake. I often dug holes
in the front yard—started at a patch where
!100!the grass was already stripped, hoped to strike
!50!!5!something: rock, metal, water, a portal
through the molten center of the warming earth. No one watched.
!100!Once, my sister accidentally let go
!50!!5!of a balloon as we got into our aunt’s minivan. I caught it
before it left for sky, hoped for it to take
!100!me with it—air-filled spirit not tethered to anything. We could
!50!!5!whisper to each other dreams, secrets
too dark to share with family or at school or anywhere else
!100!that’s not a therapy session, or our own
!50!!5!empty prayers, or in the recurring nightmares about teeth
and a balloon-filled void. We could drift
!100!aimless, vanish, join the other drifting spirits, maybe
even have our sudden absence be missed.