A Kite Would Be Nice

The other day Easton and I played at the park. E found a clump of string in the woodchips of the playground. He unraveled half of the string, leaving the other half in a tuft. I sat on the base of the monkey bars, content with the light breeze brushing my face and hair.

“Today is a good day for a kite,” I said. “We should go and get your kite, E.”

Easton held up the string. “I got this!”

“Oh. My mistake,” I chuckled, forgetting that a five year old is often easily amused.

Easton stood in the middle of the playground, holding the string as high as he could, and was quite pleased when the breeze would catch the clump at the end and lift it, similar to a kite. I smiled, but inwardly I was thinking about the time in my life when a string without a kite was perfectly okay.

Metaphorically, of course.