Little Red

I took a spin on the definition of "feelings." Can inanimate objects have feelings, too?

I recall small details of my past quite vividly. Each memory floods my mind and reminds me of my childhood and my past. I remember I used to think that inanimate had feelings. I said to my parents as a young child, “Mom, Dad, we have feelings. Why can’t other things have feelings, too?” I got attached to small things, especially stuffed animals. They would all have their own personalities, and I guess it was for the best, because I would treat these poor lifeless animals with such care and compassion. I was so kind to these animals; I never dropped them, and I always gave attention to every one of them. I fed them (to the best of my ability), and slept with them wrapped in my arms. I was so innocent, so carefully innocent. I recall that one day, my family and I went to a restaurant that gave us free balloons. I held my balloon in the restaurant as I nursed my food, being sure to check up on the balloon and make sure it was flying perfectly. It swayed ever so carefully in the air of the restaurant. I named it something along the lines of its color- something like Pinky, or Little Red. This balloon had put its trust in me not to let it go. And I didn’t, not until we got outside. My mom pointed out that I needed to fix my shoe. I dropped the things in my hands: my small cup containing milk, and the little red string of my balloon. I didn’t notice what happened until my mom gasped. I looked up to see Little Red floating into the sky. It swayed in the wind and gained altitude. I screamed, and jumped up to grab the balloon. It was far above my head, and was slowly being consumed into the big mouth that is the sky. I dropped to my knees and wept. Being a child, I had a vast imagination. I guess, in a sense, I still do. I imagined the balloon being so cold in the sky, its red sides shrinking and shriveling in the cold air. I imagined that it might be afraid of heights (which is quite an unfortunate fear for a balloon). It might have gotten attacked by the sky gods who threw pointy objects and made it pop. Innocent and imaginative, I was. If I were a balloon, I would be afraid of all of those things. I would mostly feel betrayed by this little girl who promised not to let me go. I would be alone, and the little girl on the ground would be alone. As the little girl on the ground, I sobbed, hoping some how the sky gods would be reluctant enough to give my balloon back. I was dragged back to the car, where I looked into the sky, and watched this little red balloon get higher and higher. I, obviously, never saw that little balloon again. I have been hesitant about touching balloons ever since. I feel a sense of betrayal every time I try to take care of something. As a teenager, I still treat things as if they are alive. Who knows, there may be a book on my shelf who hasn’t been touched in years. But as soon as I pick it up, and carefully scan the cover, and whisper, “I remember you”, the book will at the moment be the happiest book in the room. “She remembers me,” it will say in awe. I have learned a lesson in my short lifetime, and that is to respect everything. Treat everything with care, because, especially those like myself once did with a vivid imagination, can believe that even the tiniest things have feelings.