There was only a slight breeze kissing my young cheek, but I smiled with the contented knowledge that it would be enough. My kite had never yet failed to take flight; it was the best in my seemingly infinite neighborhood.
Black, my kite was jet black, with a pair of menacing eyes.
Slight wind? It may as well have been a hurricane. She would fly; I knew that beyond a doubt.
I could not have been more than 7 or 8. The destination was the huge backyard of a church near the home of my grandmother. I often went there to launch my kite. I would fly her for a couple of hours, enjoying the tug of the string and often completely lose sight of her as she climbed. And yet the consistent tug on the string told me she was still there, assuming her rightful spot in the heavens.
I really cannot say how it happened; and yet I still feel a pang of regret 40 years later as I think back on it. One day I launched my indefatigable kite, allowed her to climb out of sight, and then suddenly everything went slack.