His small hands grip the string tightly,
Clenched fists, holding out towards the sun.
He laughs and looks up in to the sky,
Letting the string loosen slightly from his grip.
Looking over at me, he smiles,
His trademark trouble making smile
Where his eyes squint up and
All of his five-year-old teeth showing.
The wind grabs him, pulling him away.
He glances back; he knows it’s his chance.
Squealing, he takes off down the field
And the string releases from his grip.
He stops and watches as it floats and when
It hits the grass and he yells, running towards it.
Picking up the kite he waits for me, laughing,
As I toss it into the sky once again.
-For Garrett
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