Go Fly A Kite

Anger is a kite—it must be tethered. Michelle Liew

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11-year-old Benji Lim shifted in his seat, his fingers twitching behind his desk. Scrawling  a quick note to the classmate behind him was a little too hard to resist.

“Want to trade–“

He was halfway through his note when Ms. Tan’s shadow hovered over his desk. She didn’t flinch, but sighed as if she’d already had the detention bed-and-breakfast booked in advance.

“Benji, detention. An hour after school. No excuses this time.”

Benji’s mouth worked faster than his homework ever did. 

“Go fly a kite!” Before he realised it, his feet were carrying him out of the classroom. 

The detention room was his sanctuary for the rest of the afternoon.  He found Aunt May hovering at the door of the apartment they shared after his mother lost her battle to lung cancer. 

“You told your teacher to fly a kite,” Aunt May’s brown eyes held a wealth of meaning. “You’ll do just that. “

She handed Benji a lopsided, dusty fish-shaped kite that had rested in the utility room for a number of years. It was uneven, and caked with dust—like him. 

“You’ll go to the field, and get that up there.” Aunt May’s words had him making his way to the door. 

He took off to the nearby beach, his  feet like a soldier’s performing an ill-timed march past. Palm fronds met the ground, but no matter what he did, the kite refused to lift. 

A boy, a few years younger than himself, was flying a giant,self-made dragon kite—with the polished ease of someone twice his age. 

“Can I help you?” He offered, watching Benji tussle with the kite like it owed him money. 

Benji scoffed. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a stupid kite.” 

The boy simply took his kite and offered a quiet smile. “Only if you don’t know how to fly it.”

With the practiced arm of a competitive expert, he simply tethered the kite to a nearby sign that read “BEWARE OF GUSTS.”

By a miracle of boyhood physics , the kite took to the air, tethered and leering. A squirt? Showing him up? His friends would have a field day on social media. He took the cumbersome kite off the tether —it nosedived, dragging Benji like a toddler holding a leash resistant pup. 

The little boy shook his head, and once more tied Benji’s kite to the sign. It wobbled—it had no idea where it wanted to go. WIthout a word, the boy flew his dragon, his hands a steady Jackie Chan’s, stunts in panoramic loop.  

Then both kites were in the air, syncing in a windswept dance. To his surprise, Benji felt lighter. The wind didn’t just tame the kite—it carried him along with it in a beautiful arc. 

So it was two kites. Against the wind. Both winning. 

Benji had a fleeting glance at the dynamic duo, charmed by their danceathon. He looked down, looking for the boy—but he had vanished. 

In his place, taped to the sign, a neatly-written note.

“Go fly your kite again. But this time, tether it.”

Benji grinned. 

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