When I was little my family and I used to fly kites in a large field beside our house. We actually made our own out of sticks and garbage bags. The best part of kite flying for me was the take off. I would get a running start with the kite trailing behind me, the same wind that slid between strands of sun-colored hair lifted it above my head and into the sky. My legs pumped liquid rapture through my veins as the kite rose higher and higher and higher. But then the running stopped and the kite started flying on its own. The wind took over completely and the kite just hovered there atop a huge invisible tower where it looked out over the world. And I was jealous. Jealous because I did all the work just to see the bottom of a plastic garbage bag. Jealous because I couldn't see what it could see. So I complained to my mom that my arms were tired. Hurry I said. Hurry and take over for me. I don't want to hold it anymore. And as she walked toward me to take the string I let it go, smiled a contemptuous smile and watched it crash in the topmost limbs of a tall pine tree.

Funny how I regret doing that to this day.

I've patterned my entire life up until now after that incident. If only I could hold onto that string once. Just this once. But I let it go everytime and all my dreams hang high in an unclimbable tree as I stand at its base looking up. Patience eludes me in everything I do. When the running stops I let it all go and pick up two new sticks and a garbage bag, construct a new dream and start running again.

Maybe this time I'll ride it out when the running stops.

Maybe...

I hope so.

God I hope so.