Flying

She had two kites; one a small, rather ragged traditionally-shaped kite, the picture of a cartoon animal, a kitten perhaps, long since faded into a graying nebula with a bright set of white teeth forever set in a caricature of a smile, numerous rips and tears from crash landings in trees repaired with yellowing tape, its tail a long strip torn from a bed sheet found in the rag bag, with short pieces, ends raveling in the breeze, tied at irregular intervals; the other, brand new, bright and shiny, totally free of any defects, built-in tail factory calibrated for balance.