White Tail Woods was usually quiet in the middle of summer. Over the next few months, the leaves would turn vivid shades of red and orange and brown, and ponies from all over would come and gaze at their beauty until the Running of the Leaves heralded the coming of winter. But right now, Pinkie Pie was content with the monochromatic green leaves wafting in the gentle summer breeze.

She had just arrived at her destination, a clearing off the side of the road. Soft grass grew in patches between large spots of trodden dirt. She looked up at the sky—not a single cloud to be seen. Branches of trees formed a brown halo at the fringes of her vision. Out the corner of her eye, she saw a few letters carved onto one of them, but she could not quite make out what it said. The letters appeared to have been scrawled in by a colt or filly whose penmanship was not yet developed.

She took in a deep breath, and the smell of wildflowers filled her nostrils.

With her was a small red wagon, borrowed from the Cutie Mark Crusaders. It held a box of assorted uninflated balloons, a long spool of light-blue ribbon, a cannister of helium, some picnic materials, and a small notebook. She took the notebook out and flipped to its first page, a checklist of the rest of the wagon.

As much as Rainbow Dash liked to tease Twilight for making checklists for everything, Pinkie found it to be an excellent way of tracking things. Especially after last year, of course, where she had forgotten the helium and had to go back for it. (By the time she came back, the wood’s birds had gotten into her snacks.)

This was the day of the year—the day in the exact middle of summer, to be precise—that Pinkie Pie had her “Friends Forever Party,” as she called it. Every year, Pinkie Pie would come to White Tail Woods and release dozens of balloons into the sky—one for each friend that was, for some reason or another, no longer an aspect of her day-to-day life. Some moved away, and some passed away. A few came back and some of them left again, but most of these friends didn’t return—or at least, they hadn’t yet. She remembered them all the same, and she cherished every one of them.

She riffled through the wagon’s contents one more time to make absolutely certain that she had everything she needed with her. They were, and Pinkie nodded.

With everything in place and ready to go, Pinkie flipped to the next page of her notebook. Five ponies’ names were scrawled across the top in hoofwriting similar to the carving on the branches, but Pinkie could read her own age-five writing—Mom, Dad, Marble, Limestone, and Maud. Beneath their names was some scrawling about them, and a family photo was haphazardly pasted underneath. It was only natural that her family would be the first entries in her notebook.

Her first year doing this was messy and poorly planned, doing it from the balcony of the Cakes’ place. Five stringless balloons flew into the air unceremoniously, one at a time, and angered the weather ponies that were meticulously arranging clouds for a visit from the princess. Mr. and Mrs. Cake apologized profusely to them on her behalf, but Pinkie felt guilty about it all the same.

Pinkie shrugged with a smile as she filled up a balloon. “Live and learn, I guess,” she said, not that there was anyone to listen.

Once the balloon was inflated, she tied it off with the ribbon, cut the ribbon, and fastened it to the wagon handle. “Dad,” she said, knotting the string. “Stoic but kind. About as expressive as Maud, which is probably where she gets it from. Likes igneous rocks and geodes. Dislikes rock weevils.”

She moved onto another balloon. “Mom, occasionally excitable. She says I send her too many letters, but she secretly likes it when I do. Likes cherry pie. Dislikes it when I play loud music in the attic at three in the morning and everypony is trying to sleep.”

And one by one, Pinkie inflated the balloons and tied them to her wagon while reading off the names in her notebook. “Mary Mule. Moved to Manehattan. Orangeshine. Liked pears, disliked oranges. Arborcrest. Whereabouts unknown.”

The balloons in her box slowly dwindled.

---

The sun was on its way down when Pinkie Pie finished with everypony in her notebook. She peered into her box. “Just one balloon left?” She shrugged. “I’ll save it for next year, I guess.”

She had laid out a blanket and was eating her cupcakes when an old stallion called out from down the road.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Pinkie Pie! Is that you?”

Her ears perked, and she looked up.

As expected, an old stallion was walking up the path from the direction of Ponyville. His neck was craned down and his face was marked with lines of age. He wore an old wool sweater, and the hairs of his beard rolled down to his chest. Behind him was a wagon of his own, holding all sorts of personal belongings.

He bore a bright smile. “Pinkie, it is you!”

“Mr. Olive?” Pinkie stood up and trotted over to him with a smile just as bright. “Oh, hey! What are you doing all the way out here?”

“I could ask you the same question!” said Mr. Olive. He looked towards the clearing, glimpsing a peek of the many balloons, poking just ever so slightly into his view. “You having some kind of party with your friends or something?”

Pinkie nodded. “Kind of. Sort of. Definitely ‘or something.’ ” She motioned towards the clearing and walked back to it. The stallion followed, pulling his own wagon along.

Pinkie Pie knew Mr. Olive from when she lived back at the rock farm. Mr. Olive was a friend of her father’s. She knew him as the owner of that pasta restaurant in Ponyville across the street from the park, and she also knew him as the stallion that her father would sometimes go out with on Saturday nights and the reason her mother would yell at her father on Sunday mornings, not that he would be able to respond. Pinkie went to his restaurant many times over the years, and he often enlisted her as help when he needed to host birthdays, wedding receptions, hoofball league victory parties, or anything of the sort.

Upon entering the clearing, Mr. Olive looked around and saw only the wagon, the balloons, and a half-eaten cupcake. He looked around some more.

“So-o-o,” he said. “Where’s everypony else? Where are your friends?”

Pinkie opened her notebook and showed it to him. “They’re all right here.”

Mr. Olive gave a bemused look. “I, uh… I don’t quite think I follow. You got pictures of your friends, like, uh… What’s that say? ‘Adcavnap’?”

Pinkie chuckled sheepishly. “Flickerwisp. She lives in Mustangia. And yeah—here in this clearing, it’s just me. Or if there’s anypony else around here, they’re here, too—but as far as I know, it’s just me.” She took a quick breath, then shouted, “HEY, IS ANYPONY OUT HERE?”

Her only reply was a sudden flurry of wings in the trees. Mr. Olive, on the other hand, was accustomed to Pinkie’s sudden outbursts.

She continued. “Oh well. I’m having throwing a Friends Forever Party for all the friends who I don’t get to see often anymore.”

Pinkie explained to him that she did this every year. He nodded along.

“And that’s why”—she pointed to the balloons—“I have three hundred and sixty-six balloons tied to this wagon.”

“And the cupcakes? It looks like you have enough to feed six of you.”

Pinkie took the rest of her cupcake, still on the blanket, and gulped it down. “It isn’t much. I might finish them all on the way home. Speaking of which, you want one? They’re delicious!” She took another cupcake from the wagon and offered it to him. “I baked them this morning.”

“Heh. Sure, thanks.” He took it and chewed it slowly. “Mmm, red velvet. My favorite.”

Pinkie grinned. “Glad to hear it.”

“Though, you know,” said Mr. Olive, “Why don’t you consider inviting all of your friends here? You know, like kind of an annual get together sort of thing.”

“I wanted to, but I quickly learned that inviting lots and lots of to one thing when they’re all really far away is really hard to plan. I tried it once, and nopony could make it. Not even my sisters.” She sighed. “They’re all busy with their own things now. I see some of them every now again for different things, but most of them…” She looked at the photo of Flickerwisp in the notebook. “To be honest, it’s been years since I last heard from Flickerwisp. Getting ten ponies together is hard enough—more than three hundred? Not gonna happen, no matter how much I want it to.”

She took a quick breath. “Anyway, that’s enough about me. What are you doing all the way out here?” She peered over his shoulder. “And what’s with that wagon?”

Mr. Olive looked down at the ground. “Well, Pinkie, I’m afraid you might have to be adding me to that notebook of yours.”

Pinkie pulled out another cupcake. “Oh. Well, that’s unfortunate, but—wait, what?!”

He let his eyes wander about the clearing and took a long, drawn out sigh. “I’m getting old, Pinkie. Gonna move to Mustangia. My daughter lives there, and she just had kids a few months ago. Figure this old coot can look after them some time.”

“Oh, Mr. Oli-i-ive…”

He sighed again. “I know, I know, I should’ve told you. I told your dad and all, and I figured the news would pass onto you, but I guess it didn’t go through, or something. Didn’t mean for you to find out as I was leaving town, but it’s a good thing we ran into each other like this, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Yeah! This is a good thing. And not just us running into each other, either. I mean this! You! You’re going onto a new part of your life, with new ponies. And pony babies! They’re a real hoofful, I can tell you that. I babysit all the time! But yeah. This is good.”

He nodded. “It is. Heh! You’ve made it sound more exciting than I anticipated it to be, if I’m gonna be frank.”

Pinkie shuffled about. “Can… Can I tell you a story, Mr. Olive?”

He blinked. “Hm? Yeah, of course.”

She took a deep breath. “When I was a little filly, I told Mom and Dad that I wanted to be a party planner when I grew up. So I went to Mr. and Mrs. Cake’s place, Sugarcube Corner. The Cakes were old friends of ours, so they agreed to take me in for training as a pastry chef. A party pony’s always got to know her baking, you know.

“On the night before I left, though, they decided to throw me one last party. It was really cool, too—I didn’t even see it coming. And me! I can smell frosting from a mile away! It was great. We had music and dancing, punch and cake, balloons and streamers and so much fun. We never got to stay up that late. Dad had to wake me up so I didn’t miss my train the next morning.

“He came with me to the station that day. When I went to wave goodbye, he took a pink balloon that he was hiding his bag. He shouted, ‘Don’t forget about us, now!’ And he let go. The balloon floated into the air, freely blowing in the breeze, tied to nothing. It might come down one day, back home, or here, or somewhere else—I don’t know. I thought that was like us. Ponies’re gonna go where they’re gonna go. That’s what these balloons are for.”

Mr. Olive stood still.

Pinkie leaned in. “Mr. Olive? Are—”

Without warning, he burst into uproarious laughter. “Ha ha! You really are the best party pony, aren’t you? Ah, that’s too touching. Ah, my heart… Your father needs to hear about this. Think I’ll write him once I get to Mustangia.”

Pinkie giggled. “Oh, he already knows. He thinks it’s silly, but he’ll be glad to hear it from you.”

He looked down at his watch. “Ah, it’s late. I really need to get going. Gotta make it to the next town while the sun’s still up. You shouldn’t be out too late, either—”

Before he could finish, Pinkie gave Mr. Olive a hug.

“Heh heh. Same as you were when you were little, eh? You’re a good kid, Pinkie.”

“I guess so, huh?” she said, rubbing her eye.

A short silence and the chirping of birds.

“Mr. Olive?”

“Yes, Pinkie?”

“Do you think we’ll ever see each other again?”

“Maybe, one day. And hey, if I ever see that friend of yours—Flickerwisp, was it?—I’ll tell her you said hi.”

Pinkie smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Olive.”

“No problem,” said Mr. Olive. “Have a good one, Pinkie.” And just like that, he was gone.

Pinkie Pie opened her notebook to a new page and folded its corner. She would have to add a new entry to it when she got home. But for now, she grabbed the last balloon out of its box, blew it up, and tied it to the wagon along with the rest.

“Mr. Olive,” she said. “Dad’s old friend, moving to Mustangia to retire. Loves his family.”

And that was it. She was done.

With a single tug of her hoof, Pinkie released all of the balloons from the wagon, letting them float up and up into the sky, out of sight, going whichever way the wind would take them.