Kite
I wasn't born a genius. I've read about baby geniuses. Babies who, between suckling the teat and taking a nap are toying with algorithms, or playing Love Me Do on their toy pianos, or taking the spittle from the corners of their mouths on the tips of their fingers and holding it up to the light and saying, hmmmm, this is interesting, I think I shall compose a sonnet about the way the light hits my spittle, a sonnet about translucence, about transcendence. When I was a baby I was not a genius, I was in love.
I remember very little about my childhood and very little about my parents for that matter. My name came from my father and my curly hair came from my mother. We lived in the country; my father owned a store I believe. I never bothered to learn much or pay much attention to the lives of my parents. I was concerned, even at a young age, with other matters. They gave me life, this is no small gift, they kept me fed and clothed, these are important things too and I am sure that in the next life they will be rewarded for treating me so kindly. The histories of these two people, my mother and father, were never important to me because when you are in love there is nobody else in the world.
One afternoon, my mother had me out in the yard while she was hanging laundry on the line. The sun was shining and the cotton sheets in my crib were soft and warm. I remember that there was a slight breeze and sometimes I would bury my head under the warm sheets where the wind couldn't get me, and other times I was looking at my fingers. I was studying them. The kite came to me while I was studying my fingers. She was red, like an apple, and her tails were golden yellow. She came to me and tickled my hair, she whispered in my ears. My tiny hands held her by the edges and she kissed my lips.
This was the moment I decided to fly.
