Margen
A week after the party the balloon is still in the living room, at half height, neither ceiling nor floor, like a lamp that can't decide.
Nobody has touched it.
It loses air with a slowness we didn't know it had: the slowness of what was once urgent.
Yesterday it brushed the ceiling with its head, today it hangs level with the pictures, tomorrow it will drift at the knees of whoever crosses the room in the dark.
Someone should pop it, someone says. Nobody pops it.
In this house we know how to let things come down on their own.