I am a kite and fuck you, I spend most of my time up in this tree, the tall elm just off the backyard.
Apparently, you think that leaving me on the wall of the garage for nine months of the year only to come out at Springtime is okay with me. It's not. I am a kite - being on the wall is not the same thing as soaring high above the grass and trees, touching the sky as sun illuminates my panels, briefly turning me into a piece of stained glass art against the backdrop of a temperate, windy day. I'm a kite, you prick, and you think you can just park me on the wall like a shovel and expect me to cooperate when YOU decide it's time for a little kite flying?!? Do I look like a shovel? Bitch.
I am a kite. I am a delicate construction of fabric and string arranged upon a light framework and held together not only with stitching and pockets and fasteners, but also with love and light and altitude and wind beneath the canopy of my bright colors, struggling to break free, holding me aloft against the firmament of the sky. I am a kite, trailing colors and laughter and fun. Ideally. I am not a simple toy to be dashed across the dirt and rocks because your legs and understanding of basic wind physics aren't up to the challenge. I am a miracle of lightweight aerodynamics, you dumb sonofabitch, and I will not be told what to do by you, or any grubby-pawed little simpleton with an itch - I obey the wind and whimsy, and I might decide to spend the whole Spring up in this fucking elm, or on the roof, precariously niched against the gutter's edge, my sun-bleached panels a silent rebuke, reminding you that if I'm not cooperating, it might just be because you stuck me in a darkened room until winds brought blossoms and barbecue smells to your nose and you thought, "Ooh. Kite weather."
Maybe I decide when to fly, and maybe it's the wind, but you're not the boss of me. I am a kite, motherfuckers, a majestic wing on the air, a symbol of hope and freedom, and an object of joy. When I want to be.
I am a kite.