Her mass of taut and floating balloons seems heavy.
The Puebla street is five layers of flaking paint visible on the lamp post. It’s anxious crowds shopping slowly between the two stories of old buildings and churches and rubbish bins spilling over with taco and cemita wrapping.
Among the balloon sellers and crowds you don’t notice the sturdy tree resisting. Reaching up with self assurance. After all, it will remain.
The balloon seller holding up her hundred balloons is a poor imitation of the sturdy tree. She wears a hard face and has crossed arms and yawns in her neck. Life’s colour has been packed into the balloons and all the stuff for sale and there’s no colour left for her.