I used to be a balloon. I was always floating away. And I so badly wanted to be a part of all the gravity-sensitive rituals on Earth. Just a balloon drifting higher and further away.

But maybe my relationship with my home, with the constantly moving, unpredictable patterns of Air, is changing. I’m not floating away. I’m catching and hanging on. I have wings.

Not the bird type; directing, steering, deciding. Nor the butterfly type; flailing, playful urgency. Closer to the moth type probably;

insane for the light.

Closer. But not exact. My wings might be something younger, less structured, yet. My wings are simply formed, horrifically basic, with only one function and that is to open. And stay open. Catching currents’ upward lift of warm air. Dropping when warmth isn’t there.

I used to be a balloon.
I resemble a moth.
For now though, I am a kite.

With always open wings, gliding and lifting but unlike my previous celestial helium incarnation, never floating away because I am attached by a life line. That silver chord. That umbilical chord to the gravity-sensitive world. For now I am a kite and I am no longer struggling to get back to the ground.

I know now I belong in the sky.

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