In the seventh grade I had a teacher whom I adored. She was sensitive, caring and felt like one of the few adults I could trust.

That year was both particularly difficult and particularly creative for me: I threw myself into one of the long-term projects of the school year, a personal and handmade book full of assignments about the novel “A Wrinkle in Time”. I put a lot of time into it, and I loved it. It didn’t feel like work to me; it was a work of art. I connected with the story, and I was personally invested in the assignments (although I hardly remember the novel itself now).

But I remember a day in what was probably the beginning of the school year, when I wasn’t yet sure about Ms. Dietrich and I wasn’t yet aware that I would actually enjoy her class. We were given an assignment about narrative – it was probably a precursor to the “Wrinkle in Time” project. The assignment was to write a story with a narrative arc, in which something happens, and there is a resolution.

I was very excited about doing the assignment because I had a very vivid image in my mind, and it was in itself a story (so I thought). It was so clear and so real that it seemed a pesky inconvenience that there wasn’t exactly a problem, solution, or narrative arc involved. I didn’t need a narrative arc, I thought, because the visual story in my mind was powerful, and it was important. It was beautiful, and it evoked feelings. I brushed off the nagging thought that my “story” may not be what the teacher was looking for.

The image in my mind was of a girl, probably my age or younger, with a handful of balloons. She was on a sidewalk, up on a hill, in what looked like San Francisco, where houses lined the streets and the sun was setting behind them.

In my vision, she walked down the hill holding the balloons and I didn’t know if she was going to make it to the bottom without letting go of them. There was tension there; suspense. The balloons floated above her, and the sun shone through them, making them look like glowing coloured balls above her head. As she walked down the hill, the light changed – the dusky, blue-gold light that I’ve only ever seen in the early evening on the Westcoast – when the sun is setting and the sky is beautifully clear. She did get to the bottom of the hill, and stood on the sidewalk, still holding the balloons. But I didn’t know what could possibly come next.

To me the story was about the girl, about the balloons, about the changing of the light, the sun setting. No there wasn’t any protagonist, or catalyst, or resolution; but it was a story nonetheless. To me.

When my teacher read my assignment, she said something like, “But … nothing happens.”

And I didn’t know what to say to her, because I understood that she did not understand. And I couldn’t put it into words. I didn’t know how to explain what I saw in my mind. I just turned away. But the story (such as it was) stayed with me ever since. Where was she going? Were the balloons given to her or were they for someone else? Would she let go of them, watching them float into the dusky sky? I didn’t know. But I’ve never forgotten the girl and her balloons, walking down the hill, with the sun setting behind her.

This story is for my friend Kate, an elementary school teacher, actor, comedian, and serious creative.