Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages Vermont and New Hampshire students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences in newspapers, before live audiences and on websites, youngwritersproject.org, vtdigger.org, vpr.net and cowbird.com. Young Writers Project also publishes a monthly digital magazine, The Voice. YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing.

Love

What is love?

You might think things like

Faith

Friendship

Kindness.

And in a way, you would be right.

But love is something stronger.

It is a commitment,

But yet it has no boundaries.

It is joy,

But there still is fear.

Love is a gift.

Everyone needs to be loved,

And everyone is capable of it.

Sometimes, you just need help to turn on the light.

Three Balloons

Lounging on the carpet, surrounded by balloons,

enormous, ethereal, magnificent, bulbous,

queen of the clouds!

Clutching a bright yellow balloon pump in one hand,

a rubbery purple sac in the other.

Anticipating the ritual of the decorations:

Opaque beauties hung in every doorway,

hoisted to the railings of the porch,

drifting from the leaning mailbox,

dallying between leaning boughs of gnarled trees,

reaching for the sky.

I clamber to my feet;

the pump and balloon drop to the floor.

I reach for a bright red one, its end hastily tied in a messy knot.

My eyes bright,

my arms reaching out,

my shoulders close in,

my waist tight,

my legs short,

my feet burning hot in black socks.

I bounce the balloon into the air.

It floats upwards; I tip my head back to watch.

It shows no resistance, yet no incentive,

like an enlarged soap bubble.

I realize my mouth has drawn across in a beaming smile,

as if merriment, weaving through the air above,

had decided to swoop down.

I bring my hands together into a firm, intertwined fist,

as if I were playing volleyball

— though I would have been too small to see over the net.

My fists connect with the balloon in a blinding moment.

Before I can think

the balloon shoots up into the air,

a deafening crack like glacial lighting shatters.

I tumble backwards,

lying dazed on the floor,

staring at the ceiling.

Laughter bubbles in my throat like a chuckling brook,

and before I know it, I’m laughing full out.

The neighbor’s dog barks madly at the noise,

A sound that would normally silence me like a shark’s jaws.

Though for once,

I don’t mind.

I’m not afraid.

I am four years old.