On Weaving Kite String


I remember the gray sky filled with billowing thunder caps, the horse-drawn wagon in the parade that I struggled to see, and the photographer that frustrated me by being in the way of my view. Best of all, I remember feeling safe because my Dad was so strong as he put me up on the bricks of the General Store.

And, I remember this photo hanging in my grandmother's sewing/guest room along with so many others—a collection of stories that covered that wall in her favorite room. At the time, I thought it so different and wonderful that my grandmother covered an entire wall with photographs. Now, I consider whether to do that in my own home.

But, it's this one photo at the moment that has my attention. For, this photo is one of the threads in the kite string between Dad and me, something that ties me to him—my kite—as it's carried away by the wind; a metaphor for his passing. This photograph is a story full of color and life that soothes the pain of loss.

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