In My Small Hand
Broken, the string went slack.
Against the deep blue, spring sky, the kite, unbound, dove.
It fought the wind, retreated, floated, uprising.
Its movements were unpredictable, radical,
With a sigh, my father took my small hand.
“Time to go,” he whispered.
For, berated and broken by her harshness, unbound and unloved by her, with movement’s unpredictable and radical, he too, vanished.
Ever, I hoped and prayed for my father’s return. That he would take my hand again. That he would never let go.
Yet, one day, long ignored, my hope went slack.
Copyright C. J. Booth 2013