The Kite

THE KITE

When we arrived at our house
on the beach
on Oak Island
in the state of North Carolina,
the first thing I noticed
wasn't the ocean,
vast and calm,
or the sky, wide and blue,
or the sand, expansive at low tide,
or the breeze from the south.
It was a kite held captive
on the house beside of ours.

Where we were, the beach faced south,
so the sun rose each day to the left, brilliantly,
and set, glowing and painting the sky,
to the right.

And it was to the right,
west of us,
where the kite was captive
on the roof of the house.

A small kite--smaller than most beach kites--
with the colors of the rainbow.
It's edge was caught under the cap
of the roof. String went in both directions.
It was there as long as we were--
blowing in the southern wind,
flapping enough, I thought,
to break free.

But it never did.
Caught and held, it flapped
the whole time we were there.

I longed for it to break free and soar,
one last time,
to the inlet to the north.

A kite deserves to fly.
Just as we deserve to live.

And how many of us are wedged in somewhere,
unable to escape,
flapping helplessly in the winds of life,
unable to soar?

Had I had a ladder long enough
and courage great enough,
I would have climbed up and
freed that kite.

But I didn't.

And how often, for lack of a ladder and courage,
do we not rescue others of our kind,
not kites but humans,
from the stuck-ness of their lives?

It flutters still, I suppose,
that kite on the beach,
stuck and unable to soar.

And what of us?
What of us?