Sunday Afternoon

It is Sunday afternoon, the wind

Playfully tousling our hair as we

Make our way along Chicago's

shoreline.

 

I hold your small hand while

Cradling the kite you made

With my other arm pressed

against my

chest.

 

The kite tugs at me, almost begging,

Trying to find its way up into the clear

Skies above Montrose Avenue

beach.

 

We find a clearing and unravel the spool

Letting the restless little thing

Into the rivers of air above our heads.

Marvelously, the kite struggles and tries

To take hold of the chaotic air currents

And tragically ends up in the outstretched

arms of a tree --

 

It seems like even trees want to keep

Pieces of the earth from straying

into heaven.

 

I reach up and bring the little kite back

To the confines of gravity.

When I turn, looking foolish for having

Piloted your handcrafted creation into

grasping branches

 

I find you standing beside me

Ready to forgive everything

With a soft, unyielding

kiss.