We live on what is technically an island in Lake Ontario about two hours east of Toronto. One of the beaches, about a 10 km stretch of lovely white sand, faces west towards Toronto, and most of the approaching weather. When I walk the beach I find, tangled in the grass, these remnants of foil balloons, let go from some child’s fist or some drunken wedding guest’s sticky fingers, as they turn to have one more dance before deciding they’ve had too much fun. The balloons leave amidst whoops and squeals and lazy laughter from backyards of tight Victorian homes, in neighbourhoods with names like Riverdale or Cabbagetown, or broad brand new back yards laid with perfect turf, in North York or Bramalea. They fly and float east and finally descend into the water or onto the beach and collect themselves, still bright with colour, but weak of inflation, and breathe only with the passing breezes. They disappear over time, whether it is under the sand or over another dune and into the dry blasted tundra of thorns and thistles and bleached white bones, visited by no one.