Bubble Writing

The trees swayed rhythmically in the Autumn wind, bringing back memories of a time where leaves clung tenaciously to their branches, shining similarly in their viridescence against the glaring sunlight. In Fall, however, they are free, a clustered conglomerations of color that swirled rapidly through the air and floated gently amongst the bubbles that surrounded me, making a muffled crunch beneath my feet against the wind’s howl. I felt the sun’s warmth radiating down subtly against my arms despite the cool wind as classmates and friends waved their bubble wands haphazardly above their heads in a manner reminiscent of young children, enthralled with the euphoric feeling of childhood innocence and the cool sensation of wind against their hair. Others blew on them lightly, deliberately, peering up at the bubbles that popped against the sun’s heat like the lost effervescence of a warm can of soda that lies forgotten on a sunny porch, or the sea foam that fizzles out as soon as the waves that have created it crash into sandy shores and retreat back into a sea of blue. I watched in awe of their colors, not quite translucent, but transparent, various vibrant colors that glimmered in the sunshine, the perfect picture of iridescence.  A gust of wind shoved a bubble towards my face, bursting near the roof of my mouth and leaving the uncomfortable taste of bubble solution on my tongue.

As the unpleasant taste began to subside, I directed my attention to the idiosyncrasies of each bubble. They were all unique in some way, whether it be the peculiar, oblong shape of a certain bubble in comparison to the common roundness exhibited by the others, a bubble that was noticeably larger than the rest, or a bubble so small you would need a magnifying glass to properly see it, each one of them contributed shades of color to the world. They floated towards clouds resembling cotton balls and the swirls of milk in hot chocolate, scattered across the sky like a flurry of snowflakes that soar through the air before landing on the tips of children’s tongues and melting on the palms of outstretched hands that face the white winter sky. Once again, the wind was responsible for a bubble making contact with my face. This time, I felt it pop on the bridge of my nose, and as I inhaled the faint scent of soap, a wave of childhood nostalgia washed over me. Inexplicably and unbeknownst to me until I grasped the handle of the bubble wand, it had acquired a fair amount of bubble solution, but the wet sticky sensation that came with grasping the slippery object did nothing to hinder me from blowing bubbles as I gripped the wand tightly and twirled it towards the sky. 

I soon realized that the issue was that I was facing the wind, for nearly every bubble I blew popped against my face, the familiar feeling of stickiness settling onto my cheeks. The brisk air sent the multifarious assortment of bubbles into a frenzy as a group of large, ink black birds stretched their feathered wings and danced across the vast blue, spots of black that mingled with the bubbles against the colorfully painted canvas that was the pale Fall sky. The sun’s rays hit each bubble at a slightly different angle, and they sparkled with all of the colors of the rainbow. Why were their colors so dissimilar, if they each came from the same bubble solution and the same type of bubble wand? I watched with joy as they lighted up the sky like a thousand incandescent street lights on a dark, starless night. The faint sounds of cars rushing hastily to their destination on asphalt roads and birds chirping peacefully, perched atop soon to be barren trees created a unique atmosphere that consisted of both a cheerful livelihood and a nearly undisturbed tranquility, an environment opposite to school hallways during class time, where you could likely hear a pin drop. The exuberant, animated chatter of my classmates quieted down considerably as we entered the school, taking one last look at the multitudinous bubbles and preparing to continue the rest of our day.