The more line I lay out, the more tightly I grip the roll of string that flies the kite of past. It shrinks within the blank blue sky, hits a cloud and flies above it, changed somehow. Tiny, tiny; but there. Fingers numbed by nerves that’ve given up their sensitivity, so tighten on the hold as if the numbness threatens the connection though the tail waves wildly in the wind.
But still I feel the ball roll in my hand, the pull of present letting out the string.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology