Once upon a time ago I was a kite. I was stored with theother kites, content and happy to be the shape of the wind and to wait for mytime. And when it was my time, somebody was there to help me take off. One, two,three attempts, or as many as needed, they’d run through the meadow with me,and the hands would let me go off on my own when I was ready. But I wasn’treally on my own.

I climbed the sky and faltered but the string on the spool ofthe hand that held me played me on the breeze so I could get high enough to bemy full kite self. I soared and danced on a breeze laughing and happy to justbe a kite. My string guided me. It pulled me in when things got rough, orconditions weren’t right. It gave me more lead when I wanted to explore, butall the while I knew it was there to ground me.

Once upon another time ago I graduated to a string on aspool. When my time was done, I was remade and repurposed. I had a bigresponsibility which I earned and understood through the wings of the kite I’donce been. Now I held something precious, a beautiful, coloured kite that flutteredand glided and tugged and strained while I gave it the reins it needed to bethe best kite it could become.

People would look up and remark on our outline against thesky. Some said I should let the kite go off on its own to be a better kitewithout me. It could go higher than I ever dared to let it go and beyond thelength I could become. But that wasn’t my job. I had to stay fastened, or the kitewouldn’t be a kite, now would it. Oh yes, it would be for a little while whenthe breeze was just right, but when the wind blew hard or not at all, the kitewould have no way to get back, to wait, to play on the wind and just be a kite.

It would somersault and cartwheel for a bit and think it wasstill a magnificent kite until it could no longer sustain the unattachment. Inthe frenzy of unattachment, it would whip and fold onto itself. The kite would falland crash and scrunch and tumble along the streets. Its parts would break offor snap and tangle, it’s fabric would tear, and fray and it would becomerefuse. People would walk past it, probably the same ones who had wanted you tolet go, and some may comment on its colour or remark that it used to be abeautiful kite. But alas none would do for the kite what I’d once done.

I, too then, would no longer be a string. I would lay in thesoil having failed at my kite holding job and perhaps feel sorry for myselfbecause I could no longer see nor hold the kite. I would fade and ravel andfret for what once was. I would look for another, perhaps smaller kite, but myhopes of tying to another would be slim the longer I remained rotting anduseless on the ground.

Then I would doubt myself as a string like the kite surelydoubted itself as it lay broken and forgotten in an alley behind a dumpster andout of sight of everyone.

Once upon a later time we could be found by the kind-heartedwho believed we still have purpose. They put us in blue bins and bring us to afacility where we are re-engineered. The kite is remade, and I am cleaned,refreshed, and respooled. I will never be a kite like I once was but if I’mlucky, I’ll measure my length as a kite string and hold on tight enough thatthe kite can be itself, but not too hard that it will want to let go or tearfree.

Alas, as I think on my time as the string, I discover it isme no longer. I am now the spool. I have to teach the kite and the string thelessons I once learned about holding on just right and about the abandon ofbeing a kite. Though I let them both go, I know I’ll be there to reel them inand stay with them when the conditions aren’t right to be neither kite, nor string,nor spool. They mightn’t like not being able to fly and soar all the time orlaced to the kite and the grounding, but I remind them that there are worsethings than having boundaries. Part of being the spool is to pass on that theyshould enjoy their time as a kite and a string while that time is upon them anddo all the kitey and stringy things they can instead. If they waste their timeon wanting to be free of the string or the spool it is time they can’t get back,they will have missed the best breezes looking for freedom that can’t be givento a kite nor a string. It’s a glorious thing to be a kite when you’re a kite.It’s a glorious thing to be a string when you’re a string. It’s a gloriousthing to be a spool when you’re a spool.

But the kite can’t be a kite without the support of thestring and the spool. They are a package deal in this wild and windy andsometimes unforgiving world where being recycled is not always available whenthe lending hand can’t find what’s become of you when you went so far youcouldn’t get back to being anything repurposed, remade, or respooled and youpine for the time when you were a kite eagerly climbing the air.