Unattached

Your father always said

you had to let go of the kite

when the afternoon of kite flying was over.

You had to watch it ascend erratically

above the trees, then drift over

towards Lake Michigan

with a new sense of purpose,

hit a wind draft, and disappear.

It was probably just laziness

on your father's part, a refusal

to spend the time gently pulling

on the string, reeling the kite in

and then folding it up

to be used on another day.

You never questioned this, though,

and your parents mouthed platitudes

about nothing ever lasting,

and you can always purchase something new,

and that it was best to be like a kite.

It was too early for anybody

to worry about the environment,

if you were tired of something

you just threw it on the ground

or you let it fly over your head

and miraculously cease to exist.

People were dying in jungles

on the other side of the world,

they either fell or ascended, or

both. It was easier not to

get too attached.

When the kite was gone

you always turned around

and went to get something to eat

at a nearby restaurant.

Your momentum needed fuel to continue,

but the kite still soared

unassisted towards unknown territory.

Perhaps being a kite

might be better after all,

not knowing for sure

whether you would hit a wall

or find someone else's hand,

but there always was a certain comfort

in sitting in an upholstered chair

and being able to order from a menu.