Plastic and thin, shaped like an unusual triangle. A wooden spine with something resembling a tail at the end. Mine had a drawing of an eagle on it. I remember every week taking that plastic kite to the Queens Park Savannah, watching the wind take my eagle and push it up to the heavens.
The only thing that prevented my fragile piece of kite from breaking free and disappearing was the chord, the string, the cable, whatever it was called, wrapped around on a plastic stick with my hand clinging to it for dear life.
Sometimes it just floated up in the air, other times a strong breeze took the kite and it darted across the horizon. On a few occasions the breeze almost picked me up with the kite and took me away.
I remember every weekend. I remember me, mom, Cathy and you dad.
Sometimes we went for ice cream after.
We flew those kites till it was dusk.
I remember all those great times as a kid.
The only thing that prevented my fragile piece of kite from breaking free and disappearing was the chord, the string, the cable, whatever it was called, wrapped around on a plastic stick with my hand clinging to it for dear life.
Sometimes it just floated up in the air, other times a strong breeze took the kite and it darted across the horizon. On a few occasions the breeze almost picked me up with the kite and took me away.
I remember every weekend. I remember me, mom, Cathy and you dad.
Sometimes we went for ice cream after.
We flew those kites till it was dusk.
I remember all those great times as a kid.
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