Birthday Cake Balloon
I bought you a birthday cake balloon. The fire lifted us high above the hillside, its many candles roaring into the mouth of the swollen canvas. We looked down on our domain. Disneyland castles and parades of parades. Banners streamed into sailboats on oceans the size of puddles, sunlight splashing in them all. Angels and Valkyries battled in the clouds, spinning in the sugar.
Then our feet cracked through the stale shell of the icing, and we sank into the soft chocolate. So comforting, the cushy softness and the release of the rich chocolate smell, before the realization. The ropes (really just rubber bands from party hats) pulled free and snapped, making music in the air as it all fell apart.
A gentle “fruff” signaled the tearing apart of our little airboat, as the beautiful confection’s disc became ragged chunks, brown spongy meteors. I reached for a handful of the stuff as we fell, at first in a desperate attempt to secure purchase, and then just for the sake of the handful.
We tore through the air, cake and sugar caught in the airstreams above us. The heavenly warriors dissipated into mist; no one would catch us but the ground. I made my final efforts in the fall an attempt to steer my body towards you. Closer, closer, sweet handfuls of cake stretched out to offer you.