The Balloon Tree
Every street sign in my town had one slogan:
“Dù gái hay trai, hai con là đủ.”
“Whether a boy or girl—two kids is enough.”
I never really knew what that meant back then. I just knew it sounded important and kind of bossy, like most things adults say.
I wasn’t like the other girls in my neighborhood. They were busy being smart and proper. Me? I preferred hanging upside down from the longan tree, letting the world wobble like a bowl of soup. That tree branch was my thinking chair, my nap spot, and my lookout tower.
“Chị Un! Hôm nay có trò gì chơi không?”
“Big Sister Un! What are we playing today?”
I peeked down. There they were—my two loyal sidekicks, Nhi (age 6) and Bé Ba (age 5). They weren’t my brothers, but they followed me around like ducklings. If I was peeling potatoes, they’d sit in silence. If I was napping, they’d guard me from imaginary dragons.
I sighed dramatically. “I haven’t thought of anything yet…”
But Bé Ba came running back like a squirrel with a stolen treasure.
“Look what I found!” he shouted, holding up a wrinkled little packet.
We opened, and inside we found a peculiar, floppy balloon. No cartoon faces, no colors—just one long, stretchy mystery tube. It looked like something a doctor might use or a magician might hide up their sleeve. It smelled like a new raincoat.
He blew it up. I blinked.
“Woooow. That’s the longest balloon I’ve ever seen.”
It swayed like a confused eel, then plopped down. We tried to tie it off, but it kept slipping out of our fingers like it was shy.
“I got it!” I yelled. “Let’s make a balloon tree!”
We started decorating the longan tree like it was Lunar New Year, hanging those weird balloons from every branch like… like… fruit? Jellyfish? Sausages? Nobody knew. Some dangled, while others shot off into the bushes with a squeal.
To test its strength, we poured water into one—just to see what would happen. It grew. And grew. It looked like it could water the whole neighborhood if it popped.
“This is a rain balloon now,” I said, seriously. “Science.”
The three of us climbed into the branches to admire our masterpiece. I was 11, basically a tree engineer by then. Nhi and Bé Ba were buzzing with pride. For a moment, it felt like we’d built something important. Maybe even magical.
And then… the grownups came home.
They stood under the tree with their mouths open like frogs in a thunderstorm.
“WHO. DID. THIS?!”
They didn’t laugh. They didn’t clap. They just started yanking the balloons down like they were toxic. One uncle nearly fell off the fence trying to reach one way up top.
I stayed quiet.
I didn’t know why they were mad. It was just a tree. With balloons. Beautiful, stretchy, mysterious balloons. Why were adults always ruining the fun?
Later that night, we sat in the dark. Our neighborhood only had electricity three nights a week. No TV, no radio. Just the sound of crickets and the occasional adult sigh.
I looked up at the longan tree, now bare again, and whispered to Bé Ba:
“Next time, we will hide them better.”
He nodded like a soldier.
