About the work

The red balloon was given to Maria by a child who had finished their paperwork. It was a small thing, nearly transparent with age, but bright against the fluorescent hum. She had watched the child’s hand let go, then saw its slow drift towards her. It settled softly on her desk, a small defiance against the day. Janine had eyed it, then looked away, back to the line of faces. Maria knew the balloon wouldn’t last; it would shrivel by morning, or be popped by some stray pen. She just couldn’t bring herself to throw it out yet.