There was once a poor child who couldn't afford a kite for the windy days. He would squat by the stone steps leading to the small playground where the rest of the children flew their kites.
The more fortunate children were never tired of running around squealing as they tried to get their colourful kites airborne. They would sometimes slam into each other and go down in a tangle of limbs. Still, the joy never lifted from their bright eyes. They would get up, dust themselves and go back to it.
Poor Child chuckled to himself when he saw them. His toes would drum the earth in a frenzied beat as his eyes followed the others running. He wondered at night, huddled under his torn blanket, what it would be like to have someone tail him everywhere, hug him and buy him a kite. And candy floss from the vendor near the zoo. But the kite is what he really wanted. Kites were pretty.
Those other elders seemed really kind to their kids. They did all sorts of alien things like carrying them when they cried and giving them snacks constantly. He would wish for one. Just so they would buy him a kite.
Poor Child knew only a handful of words. He couldn't remember where he learned it from. Or why he still remembers. He knew enough to get food in his belly. And point the way to a few landmarks for strangers who always gave him money. He knew what money was. Little pieces of paper and hard coins which got him nice things if he collected enough of it and pointed to what he wanted while giving it away.
One day, Poor Child went near the playground and sat down in his usual vantage point. That was when he noticed a few kids throwing rocks and fallen branches at a tree. He strained his neck to see better. Something was stuck high up in a branch. He could make out a hazy outline of blue and red. He knew what it was. It was the thing of his dreams. What he wished as he gazed up at the stars through the gaping hole in the bus halt he slept. A kite.
He saw that the other children couldn’t reach it. And they would give up sooner or later. It would be too easy for him though. He knew how to climb almost anything.
That day he bided his time until eventually, the children went away. One, in particular, wouldn't stop crying. The fat one with the yellow lunchbox.
It must've been his kite, Poor Child thought, his face glowing with a sheepish, toothy grin. It would be his soon.
The evening gave way to a cloudy twilight with a moonless sky that night. The playground was finally deserted and no one seemed to be coming back for the kite.
How stupid, Poor Child thought, why would they let things go so easily?
His tiny feet took him near the tree in a feverish excitement which was too much for his head to contain. Finally!
Poor Child started climbing the twisted tree, elbows and toes slipping on the mossy bark. The kite was tangled in a couple of twisted branches but thankfully it seemed to be in one piece. He marveled at the soft tissue paper which to his delight, had managed to survive the prickly branches.
It was finally his. He would never let go of his kite, Poor Child decided, giddy with happiness.
Now he could fly it tomorrow.
Poor Child started climbing down. Which proved quite difficult single-handed holding tight to the kite with the other.
He never felt the impact. He thought he was flying backward. Which was nice, he thought. He was a kite.
Someone had managed to pry it away from his bony hand later.
The kite was no longer needed. It wouldn't fly again.
Poor Child flew higher than any kite that night. It was as if his laughter echoed through the clouds. As if he belonged there from the very start.
