I watched the leaves 
chase each other in the breeze,
like children at play,
And was reminded of childhood illusions;
Race cars, 
reptiles, 
and pirate ships,
Sails swollen 
with the wind of change.
I guess I saw it coming,
but underestimated its impact.
Until the day I cleaned the garage
of my retirement home
And came across a child's kite,
still new and sealed in its original package.
Stashed among walking sticks and special stones,
Souvenirs from camping trips long past,
Where we stacked firewood neatly for a well-constructed campfire,
Only to end up with ashes—
There it was,
The kite we never flew.
A silent statement,
Delivered and received.
I wiped off the dust to reveal the colors hidden within.
Though it conjures a melancholy image,
I cannot recall the original intention,
Or why it lingers,
As yet,
Unopened.
As the memory faded,
All that remained was the question—
What to do with it now?
I hold on to things too long,
I am told,
and maybe it's time for letting go.
Though the purging trash bin eagerly awaits,
I wasn't done with it just yet.
I'm not sure if I will unwrap it,
or if it will never fly
beyond the confines of this page,
But for now,
Herein,
It soars.