The little girl drags the bundle of pastel balloons along the sidewalk on Ditmars, pulling the string as if the collection can be lifted into the air like a kite.
Freedom to be anything. Freedom to have the time. Freedom to allow. Freedom to open boxes. Freedom to be gentle. Freedom to play.
She goes back to the place she once lived. It's empty, clean. We are one. We climb back out through the window.
How can one let go of things you might love again?
Why can't death be living still?