Flying Kites

When I was a kid, I loved flying kites. Seeing the wind pick it up and make it fly high  above the trees.  It felt free and easy. Holding on to the string— not controlling the kite, but having control. I miss those days. Now, I fly my kite,  but in thunderstorms. Holding on to the string, white knuckles, and  uneasy balance. The only control I have is how tightly I hold. It often cuts my hands, but I don’t let go. The storm whipping it around, whipping me around. Threatening to take me  off the ground. But I fight. It’s not fun anymore. But I hold on anyway. Because I know I used to love flying kites.