It was impossible for my dad to move off the bed: Overnight he had turned into a kite.
He lay motionless, a checkerboard of garish red and yellow panels, such a contrast to the sober greys of his customary three-piece business suits.
"First Mum, now this," I said. "What were you thinking?"
"Check me out," he said. "High-performance ripstop nylon sail, graphite spars and an eight-foot wingspan fully extended."
"What was wrong with your old life?" I asked.
"Reaching for a hand that's no longer there?" he said. "Sitting hollow-eyed in front of the TV night after night? Lying awake alone?"
"You didn't consider my feelings? You're the only family I have left."
"I'm counting on you," he said.
It was a bright, fresh October morning. We had chosen a nearby beach. "Keep your back to the wind," he said. "And hold me up till the current catches my sail."
I hurled him upwards. He hovered momentarily before swooping to the ground.
It's no use, I wanted to say. Not enough wind. Let's go home, try again another day. But I felt his gaze holding me.
This time I laid him on the ground and stepped backwards, feeding out his line from its winder. Fifteen feet away, I waited, the wind gusted and I pulled hard.
He took off and soared skywards, his long tail streaming.
Not long after, another kite appeared. Then another. Soon a dozen or so dotted the skyline. One of the fliers approached me and we exchanged nods.
By now Dad had climbed as high as his line would take him.
He tugged, hoisting me onto my toes, and I waved back before drawing my knife. The sun hurt my eyes as he continued his ascent unfettered.
...
(First published by Camroc Press Review, June 2015.)