Balcony People

Balcony people stand above, waving, grinning ear to ear, as my parade goes by,
cheering, silly little victory dances, as pleased with my success as if it was their own.
In a way it is. How many of us would take the risks, do the work,
sweat out the blood and tears it takes to create something grand and meaningful
or take the plunge and enter icy water, dying to one dream so we can
rise, gasping for air and warmth, ready for resurrection...
without those gentle pushes from them, those "You can do it"s? I couldn't. I need them.
Even better, when one climbs down to join me, riding on the back of a convertible,
taking it all in with me, laughing at the kids and their balloons who line the sidewalk as we pass.

Without them, all we'd have left would be the snarky lot in the basement,
moaning, groaning, pulling us by the ankles as we try to take the stairs
before we're sucked down to their level, chained to a post, and not allowed to
see the sunlight again. Maybe they never had balcony people, or didn't recognize
them when they tried to lend a hand or cheer them up. I feel for them, really, I do.
But. The sun is shining too brightly for me now. My eyes would never adjust to the dark.
They've learned to feel their way around, but I need the light.
I need your cheer.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012