Our family has a weird superstition, albeit I do not believe in it, nor do I abide by it. Superstitions strike me as lazy excuses for certain events that one cannot explain or comprehend. But I never knock on someone’s belief; it’s not for me, simple. One superstition that bothers me a lot is the Balloon man. Or the Balloon guy, or the Balloon reaper. I like to believe it’s just a hooded, mystical entity holding a red balloon, instead of a scythe. But instead of using the scythe to cut a person’s ties to life, he just pops the balloon with his skeletal fingers. I think that’s accurate enough of a description- or at least my younger self thought so. I conjured that image to reassure myself that no such entity exists, that it was just another old wives’ tale. I remember, my grandmother used to tell me that the Balloon man would just show up and be visible to the person whose death was near. His appearance was an omen of sorts, a reminder that death was right around the corner.
The next part she told used to crack me up, and it still does. She told that when the time arrives, the person hears a ‘POP’ and that’s when you know that your time alive is over. This phenomenon spanned through generations in our family, and it crossed through her as well. I remember her telling my mother that she had heard it and that she was not afraid of it. She also told mom that she knew his identity, but I could not hear her over the loud noises of my cousins in the adjacent room. I did not give it much thought, dispelling it as an old lady’s ramblings. Insensitive, yet warranted to some degree. At her funeral, she had a very shocked expression on her face. Almost as if she didn’t believe something that was in front of her. The same expression one would have if they were told their son or daughter was responsible for a heinous crime. Weird comparison, but I hope you get the gist. I only found it weird when my grandfather, my uncle, and my father died with the same expression on their faces.
All of their eyes had this certain sadness and a familiar dread. Mom had told me that Dad heard a ‘POP’ the day before his heart attack. So did my uncle, who passed away due to a stroke, and my grandfather who fell down the stairs. I was queasy, as any normal person would be if three of their relatives would pass away hearing the same sound. I lived twenty years without thinking and talking about it, and now, as I sit on my mother’s bed as she takes her last few breaths, my mind is blank. My mind is blank because of what she told me two days ago.
“Oh my god, it’s been you all this time.” Tears ran down her cheeks. Even now, she cried herself to sleep, whimpering. I did not understand her, nor do I want to. I don’t want to spend her last days figuring out what she meant. All I want to do is stay by her side, and hope.
It’s been 10 years since Mom died. I remember her having an internal struggle of wanting to push me away as she was dying, but her motherly love was holding her back from completely severing ties.
I am 70 years old and her words ring in my ears to this day. Only, now do I understand what she meant. Ever since being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I was waiting. I was waiting for my balloon to pop. Only it didn’t. It never did. Instead, I was shown what I truly am. I am writing this standing before a mirror, and all I can see is my reflection. Patchy hair, drooped skin on my chin, unshaved beard, bags under my eyes. And a balloon floating behind me. A red balloon with a string floating by my shoulder, following me everywhere I go. I don’t know how I will die, but I understand now. I am the omen.