Wondrous Kite

She walks away. Girlish and glorious laughter floats through air like a kite on a string that pulls tautly slipping through tightened fingers, burning a little, and slicing through if ever left unattended, so preciously tensioned against the cold benumbing wind. Tears begin to flow but I do not know . . . my heart? or the wind? If my heart, then am I sad to be here on the ground or joyful to be watching the kite fly? In answer, a quivering. A wisp. "She will not fall or float away while I hold her thus. She will be beautiful for me." Wondrous.