The Hot Air Balloon Morning

For my parents' anniversary, my siblings and I chipped in to send them on a hot air balloon ride over the Napa Valley. They are both terrified of heights. We did not think this through.

At five in the morning, they climbed into the basket, gripping each other and the edge with white knuckles. The pilot, a calm woman with a long gray braid, told them to look out, not down. The balloon lifted off so softly that my mother said later she didn't even notice until the van was tiny.

They floated over vineyards and fog and the tops of oak trees as the sun came up. My dad, who never takes photos, took eighty-seven. My mom said she saw a deer and her baby walking through the vines below.

When they landed, my dad announced that they would do it again next year. My mother said only if he stopped taking photos and held her hand. He agreed.