A kite. A simple kite.

Maybe I will learn to make a kite.

Maybe I learn from a child how to make a kite.

Maybe we draw and paint in the kite what only it and the birds see from above, from the sky.

Perhaps we will write a request or a wish, a hope, small as it may be, kept quietly there, in the kite. And when we fly it, the wind may take it letter by letter, little by little, of the feeling so flown. Perhaps the Universe or its Father snuggles gently, listen to our whisper with delicacy.

Maybe my child friend is a naughty one and likes to be up to out there, create new forms, just to counter or have fun. Maybe the kite changes every day, a little uneasy, inviting us to look differently, while it plays with the sun’s rays. Maybe one day the child will take a little ray, just a little one, to make the string, and spin the kite, and spin and spin in its enchanted form, designing windows and creating portals.

Perhaps, who knows, the world will turn inside out if I learn to make a kite. And the thoughts, flying together, take me and the child over there, and we like it so much that we stays there, wind blowing, widening the view of seeing so much beautiful scenery and the ugliness of the people, all in a colorful picture, danced in the gaze. Perhaps so colorful, waltzing like this in the air, it is the biggest kite of all, that the delicate thread holds right here, in our hearts.

But then, a twisted play in surprise, a blast of icy wind makes a sadness spring. Eye waters a sea of longing and the dripping drops pour us into the scent of the wet earth. Sadness, no! It is the kite traveling us, to step softly, with joy in the chest, to make serious art until bedtime. Because, in truth, kite is kite and everything else is a breeder soul, it is creation.

Maristela Rohenkohl

December 18, 2017.

Image: Kite Girl, by Claire Keay

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