She hadn't felt like this since she was six years old. Once, at a circus, she had begged her father for a balloon, swearing that she would take the best care of it . She realized now that his protests weren't cruel-hearted, but frugal. That he didn't have the money. That when he begrudgingly gave in, it meant that the family would have to go without that week, so that she could feel the joy of holding that light, floating orb above her head by a string, feeling the gentle tug upwards that whispered of something more magical, more ethereal than this dumb matter stuck to the earth, the gravity that held her down. When he passed her that balloon, her eyes lit up, and she watched it bob above her head for a full 60 seconds--a minute before she was distracted by something else, and the string slipped from her tiny hands. She cried when the balloon floated away, but not only because she had lost her toy. It was because she caught a glimpse of her father's face, of his disappointment in her inability to hold on to this precious gift he had tried to give her. Somehow he had wanted this to make up for all of the other things she lacked, a way of saying that he was trying, that he wanted her to feel that gentle tug of hope. She let it go then. Today, she hangs on tighter than