To Kites

The impulse to fling a part of ourselves towards the heavens, hope it catches in the wind, and hold on to it, tugging at it but not really wanting it to come down, must be universal.

When I was young, we flew kites in the front yard. Colorful triangle versions from the five and dime.  Perhaps it was just a way to tire a child out, but Dad would hold the kite while I  let out the line and when he said, “Go!” I’d run across the yard as he pushed it into the air. Eventually, after several tries, it would stay there, drifting higher. I’d let the string unroll in my hands.

Years later, with a child of my own, we lived in Wisconsin. In Madison, every February if the ice is thick enough, they hold the Kites on Ice festival. Kites are so very summer, bright colors and wind swept, and so they are just the right cure for winter blues. Babies bundled on sleds out on Lake Monona staring up at dragons and flowers and box kites as snow settles on their eyelashes. The kids will stay out for hours, insisting they are not cold, though their chattering teeth betray them.

But the most vivid kites were at an oceanside park on a cliff in northern California. We were midway through a trip and he was falling out of love with me, or maybe realizing he was never in love with me. Whatever it was, we were drifting through the days barely speaking but unable to break apart. After dinner, we walked towards the kites, the ocean wind strong enough to lift them easily. People merely toss their kites up and they ascend until they are just dots against the clouds. We watch as they steer their kites over the water. The waves below. The pilot on the cliff. The sail above, dipping recklessly towards the rocks.