8 years old, a string in my hand. The tranlucent, purple latex balloon bobs cheerfuly in the early spring breeze. Winters chill clings on like a frightened cat, but it has los all of its bite. My class surrounds me, their own balloons floating above their heads. Only one is missing. Bailey. She was sick for a long time, something called 'cancer'. The principal talks but I tune her out, I am trying to count all the playful balloons. There aresimply to many for my 3rd grade self to count. The principal finaly stops and releases her own balloon into the sky. Following suite we let our balloons soar. Purple clouds fill they sky. If they could they would rain the tears a family cried as they lay their 8-year-old daughter in the ground. She was beautiful before the cancer. Now all there is is a handful of purple clouds on a sunny day