“I like your kite,” I said to him and swirled my long skirt around my ankles. I was particularly proud of my outfit as little girls generally love long, flowing things.
“I know,” he said with a wide grin. The ocean roared behind him. It hadn’t been long that a storm had passed, so waves were beating against our normally calm beaches.
“Why do you have a dress on?” His eyes penetrated my soul as though trying to uncover a secret.
Not answering, I looked down and giggled uncomfortably. Birds chirped in the trees behind me, mocking.
“I have a kite, too.” With renewed spirit, I flicked my long, black hair over my shoulder.
“My daddy made mine,” he said, and puffed out his chest.
I didn’t like his pride. “My Daddy killed himself.”
In the next few months I was reminded often of that day long ago on the beach. In an oddly dark way, it was sweet.
