They get to fly.

 I was obsessed with helium balloons in my childhood. I used to get excited about buying helium balloons in Melas of my village. Once a balloon was in my hand, my whole world used to revolve around my balloon. That little thing used to be my Sun. It used to light me up. My little miracle. I used to buy a new color every time. Red. Yellow. White. But strangely, all the colors used to make me equally happy. I never got tired of holding a balloon tightly to stop it from flying away. Sadly, despite holding it, tying it to my finger or wrist, and keeping it close to me in the hope that it would stay forever, it still used to slip through my hands. The pain it gave me to see it leave my captivity used to be enough to make me cry. And yet, the beauty it offered in watching it rise in the sky was ineffable. Painful and Beautiful. I used to sit on the terrace and watch it rise until it was invisible. My Baloon! It left me, but it got to fly high, which I didn't get to. At last, I used to accept its desire for the voyage up the sky. 

After so many years, I am still the same little girl, trying to hold on to my balloons and yet finally accepting their departure. At least they get to fly, which I might not.

                                                                                                           -Anshu Rajput