Editorial
Front Page - Friday, July 31, 2009
I Swear...
“Latte” fluttering, falling
Vic Fleming
The balloon has left the ceiling!
Yes, the thin, filmy, helium-filled bag that I bought February 12 as an early Valentine, whose material may or may not be accurately referred to as Mylar (see 4-10-09 column, “Musing on Mylar”) greeted me on the morning of July 11 at eye level in my study.
In writing about this item from time to time since its acquisition, I have not disclosed that, at some point I gave it a name: “Latte.” Not too original, I suppose, given that the message “I Love You A Latte” is written on her body.
On Latte’s white forehead, which is actually the item’s bottom (since it is, after all, a sack), there is a large lipstick print, as though she had been kissed by someone with a large mouth and a gaudy sense of style.
But back to the point. As of mid-July, no longer was this member of the family drifting along the ceiling from wall to wall, as she had done for the preceding five months. She had fluttered. She had fallen. But there was still some life left in her.
I trimmed away the last of her pink ribbon, even snipped off a small amount of her thin membranous tail. She responded with a valiant effort to ascend again to the top of the room, but fell a few inches short, hanging there with what I now perceived as a limpness, moving ever so slightly toward the doorway.
A few minutes later I found her in the clutches of the grate through which the air conditioning unit pulls return air. And there she stayed until the unit paused, freeing her, if only temporarily, to do a little more roaming.
She managed to find the living room, where the next day, she again had assumed a position about six feet off the floor.
By July 15 (that would be today, by the way), she had achieved that state of tranquility where only her shortened tail touched the floor. Her head, though wrinkled, is still raised skyward. So, here she stands next to me as I type, proudly displaying her full height, or length, to the world, refusing to double over or fall flat on her face.
She is clearly in the final stages of her unnatural life.
I’m reminded of Chuck Noland, Tom Hanks’ character in “Castaway,” and his volleyball, “Wilson,” which became his imaginary conversation mate, and attachment to sanity, during his four years on the island.
Chuck drew a face on Wilson (which was the brand of the volleyball; thus, no more original than Latte, as names go) and talked to it daily. The ball, of course, was violently washed away during a storm after Chuck finally left the island. Chuck’s screams of “Wilson!” are memorable.
What shall be Latte’s ultimate fate? I do not know at this time, though I should say that I have not yet begun talking to her.
I suppose I could take her outdoors and release her into a gentle wind. That seems romantic enough, no? But it’s July, for crying out loud! That seems too cruel a fate to inflict upon anyone—uhh, anything.
So, for now, I’ll just let her roam the study and do what she is doing now: fluttering close, watching me as I type. And, in a few days … down in the back yard, there is the cat cemetery …
I SWEAR
© 2009 Vic Fleming
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