Out Of Gas

“Josh, life is like helium filled balloons. The more gas you fill into the balloon the higher it goes and the longer it flies with the birds. The more you take in of the gifts that God has given you, with this beautiful planet and all the blessings, the higher you will rise. You can fly with the birds too, one day, just Praise the Lord, live according to his teachings and embrace life the; good and the bad of it.” It was the same message I got every Sunday from my mother, as the two of us passed the amusement park on our way home from church. If I was lucky, mum would buy me an ice-cream but that was rare. I would later learn that luck had nothing to do with it. Mum would work an odd job here or there and with the money she received she bought food and tendered to the bills. The ice-cream meant that she would sacrifice something that she herself needed; like medication for her arthritis. I learnt about the sacrifice that God made because he loved man so much that he sent his own son to die in order to redeem us. I was taught this philosophy along with many others at church on Sundays. But it was from my mother that I learnt about God’s love. A true mother is a vessel of God. She sacrifices everything for the sake of her child even to her own suffering.

It was a winter night, I was in junior school and I heard a noise in the garage. I went to see what it was only to find my father dangling from the ceiling rafters by a piece of rope. When my mother came in she shrieked and wept. She took me in her arms and held me tight. When she calmed down substantially she looked me in the eye and said, “Daddy’s balloon just ran out of gas too quickly and he did not let anyone fill it up again.” My mother’s attempt to shelter me from the truth was in vain. I think a large part of it was due to her determination to see good in the world.

I was sitting in the corner of the funeral hall after my father’s service. People were all meeting with my mother, hugging her and holding her hand. No one smiled but they all had that same look on their face. It looked practiced. I wondered as grown ups have they practiced that look and reserved it for funerals. A look that says I won’t smile, I won’t laugh, I am not going to cry but I have to do something so I will just try to look sad and concerned. Mrs. Peters, a busy body from church saw me sitting on the chair dangling my legs. She touched my mum’s shoulder, nodded her head and made her way to me.

“Now, now dear, “ she said. “I would not dangle my legs like that or do you want to give the Devil a good old ride. No, no son I do not think your mother can deal with you joining your father in hell.”

I was taught to always respect my elders. “Never talk back to your elders, Josh. It is rude and a sign of ill-breeding. Always be polite and even if you do not understand them or disagree, just smile and nod,” mum would say.

I did exactly that.

“Good Lord! “ cried Mrs Peters, “I speak of hell and the child lights up like a bulb. And at his father’s funeral. Poor Mary, God be with her. A widow through suicide and a crazy child. Poor girl, the Lord is really testing her.” Mrs Peters mumbled a prayer and then walked off, clearly in search of another church fanatic.

That night when all the guests had left and my grandmother, aunts and uncles went to bed, my mother came into the bedroom I was in. She sat on the bed and stroked my hair.
“How are you Joshy? You okay?” Mum had been crying. The tears still lingered in her eyes and her nose was red. “Is this room okay for you?”

We could not afford the funeral so my mother’s parents and siblings arranged everything. After the funeral they refused to lets us go home and instead drove us miles to their big house in the city.

“Mum…” I paused to get the right words, “what is suicide, and why is dad in hell?”

My mom was stupefied. After a moment of silence she regained enough of her senses to ask, “Where did you hear that. Suicide and hell. Joshy who said those things?”

“Mrs Peters. She said I was a loon and that she feels sorry for you cause you are a window through suicide and that dad is in hell. What did dad do that sent him to hell? Will I go to hell as well?”

She started crying again, I never got any answers that night. She just held my head tight against her chest and rocked back and forth for a while. She stopped, kissed me on the forehead and left the room, switching off the light as she did.

The next morning with the support of her family, the warm sun shining onto the kitchen table and my grandmother frying eggs at the stove, my mother pulled up a chair and motioned me to sit by her.

“Mrs Peters was very naughty to say such things yesterday Joshy. But now that she has it is only fair that I explain a few things to you. It is okay if you are afraid of what I am going to tell you and you can stop me when you have had enough okay?”

Mum went on about how some times some people cannot handle life and the obstacles that present themselves. Mum mentioned that dad had lost faith.“Without faith son, it is so easy to get lost. Joshy, remember I told you that life was like a helium balloon. Well, a balloon gets filled with gas and left to fly. It dances with the clouds and for a while it is bold and joyous in the sky. As time goes by though, the gas begins to escape and slowly the balloon begins to shrivel up and cannot fly anymore until all that is left of the glorious balloon is just the rubber that once housed all the gas. Sometimes the ballon hits a tree and pops before its time. Sometimes birds attack the balloon causing it to pop. The balloon is like you and me. We are skin and bones but we need something to fill us so that we can move and live, we need a gas of-sorts. That, Joshy, is a soul. A gift from God just like the helium in the balloons. Your dad was a balloon that was tired of flying. He did not want to shrivel up slowly and wait for the gas to leave him eventually, so he popped his balloon early on his own. When someone does that, it is called suicide. And suicide is a sin in the eyes of the Lord. That is why Mrs. Peters said what she did. I am now a widow, not a window and you my boy are part orphan. You will hear these words quite often now I imagine so you must know what it means. A widow is a woman whose husband has died, like me. An orphan is a boy or girl who losers either his or her mum or dad or both. Do you understand?”

Mum looked at me with love and concern. I did not understand half of what she was saying. My dad was a balloon and she and I have gas and that is why we are living and dad popped so he lost his gas. I was confused but something told me to just smile and nod, which is exactly what I did.

That was many years ago. I saw many balloons shrivel up and run out of gas. I had many friends as well, joyful balloons popped before their time. At twenty – nine I feel alone. My father killed himself, the problems that plagued his heart and mind died with my mother when but I doubt that she knew the reasons herself. She was never bitter about his cowardice she just went on, living her life as a child of God. I did not make life easy for her. I grew up feeling lonely, hating the church for its talk of hell and sin and never feeling good enough; feeling as if we were made to do wrong and disappoint that God so that we will suffer in hell. As a teenager I was into drugs and alcohol, often arriving home in the back of a police car, bloodied or soiled but witless either way. Grandmother used to say, “What do you expect, the apple does not fall far from the tree, like father like son. Surprised he has not found a rope yet that fits his neck”. Mother just cried a lot.

I regret that behaviour now. I regret that I was unable to bring more joy to a woman who loved unconditionally. I think of her and remember the continuous sacrifices she made for me in her life. That is my punishment I suppose, the retrospective knowledge that I  wronged my mother. I have never forgotten my mothers analogy of life. We are all but helium balloons running out of gas.

I hope that at the end she was happy. I don’t know what her last moments were like . Perhaps it was my own cowardice that ensured I was not there when she to ran out of gas. My mother died, clutching her bible on her hospital bed while I sat in rehab blaming the world for my life.

I got out last week. I managed to skip the funeral, the disproving faces of the remaining family members. The scornful, judgemental stares and the mumbled prayers of the church goers. Through my mother’s sacrifices and the grace of whatever Power is out there my life has been good even though I have not admitted it before. It could have been better but it could also have been a lot worse. So here I am an engineer, a creator standing above the world alone. Is this what God feels like the power to create but for what, when there is no-one to share your existence with,  when there is no-one who understands you.

I am a helium balloon floating in the glorious blue heavens, alone. Soon I too will be out of gas and fall to the ground, shrivelled and empty. Whether or not any others will join me, I don’t know but it is about time I start enjoying what I have. I have life so for the first time I am actually going to start living.

(This is a piece I wrote years back as part of a writing group. Was lucky enough to recover some of these and decided to share).