On value.

It kept gently whacking me in the face, clipped as it was to the front of the cart. We walked circles around the Shaw’s, looking for stuff they didn’t have anyway, and the hair on one side of my head grew staticky from the friction of balloon-to-head. My sister waved her hand over it—what unseen forces!—laughing.

Just this? the cashier asked.

Just that, I said, about to be $20 lighter and without much to show for it. I hadn’t looked at the price (how much could one balloon cost, Michael? $10?) but, afterward, E. and I agreed—it was too late to turn back anyway.

Don’t let go, she warned in the parking lot, the wind spinning the balloon at the end of its string. You’ll have to kill yourself.

She held the car door open while I stuffed the turkey in the back. If it doesn’t fit, I swear, I said, I’ll make you walk home instead.

The turkey is still there, drooping slightly, slowly deflating over the mantel and beside the Christmas tree. We’re having two holidays at once, I keep joking. I’m getting my money’s worth.

My son loves balloons. What can I say? I’m a people-pleaser at heart.