I wander through the field stepping over bumpy ground. Sam who has a 13 year old body but a 4 year old heart holds on to one of the sleeves of the jacket tied around my waist. Sam is bigger and older than me but I’m the big sister all the same.
“Elsa, can I hold the kite?” He croons.
His heavy voice cuts through the wind much better than mine, so I have to stop and face him. I tilt my head up. My hair streams across my face and I’m momentarily blinded. I press the kite tightly against my chest so I can free a hand to peel the hair out of my eyes and mouth.
“The kite is touchy, remember? I’ll carry it to the field and then once we get it to the air you can fly it.”
Sam bites his lip and tugs on my sleeve. He’s not anywhere near satisfied with this answer, but I hold firm. It took a long time to repair the kite the last time I buckled and let him carry the kite. Sam does try to be gentle but his body has grown into a man faster than other boys his age. The irony is not lost on me one bit. I’m the one who has to calm him down when he throws a fit. Dad works so much and has the patience of a gnat. So, I take care of Sam. I made that pretty clear to Dad almost from the beginning. He’s not to lay a finger on Sam ever.
I plot forward praying the wind stays steady, not just any wind makes for good flying weather. Nothing makes Sam happier than a holding the string of a highflying kite. It makes me burst into tears every time. I’m thankful I don’t have anyone else around when these rare moments hit me. It’s impossible to explain. I can’t understand it all myself. Whenever I follow the thread of emotion and memory inside me, it tangles into a knot so complicated I can’t help think the best thing to do is just cut the string and let it fly.
Word prompt: Kite
Photo Credit: Karen Blaha