One of my favourite childhood memories is going kite flying with my parents on the riverbank.
We went at least twice a year. Once in Spring, once in Autumn. “That’s when the wind is strongest.” My mother told me, when I asked her why I couldn’t go kite flying on a cold, winter day.
“But you told me once, that if the wind is too strong, it’s going to take the kite away. Because the string will break. Why would we still want strong wind?”
“Because only with the help of the wind can a kite fly. Even if the wind might break the kite, that’s the only way a kite can fly.”
Both my parents were very good at flying kite. And the riverbank was the perfect place to do it.
“When you grow up, you will be like this kite, flying up high in the world.” My father told me once, after our kite flying day outside. He’s the romantic one in our family. “And your mother and I will be on this side, holding the thread, waiting for you to come back once a while.”
“It’d be better if I could just… fly. You know? I don’t want to be a kite. I want to be a bird. An eagle, maybe. Eagles fly high and far. Right?” I was excited, imagining having my own wings.
“Yeah, they do.”
Parents think their children are the kites. They fly far and high. Always come back, if wind doesn’t break the tie.
But the children like to believe that they are eagles. They fly far and high, as if home is the sky.