More Thoughts on Youth and Aging

My dad must have been almost 60 when we flew my first kite. In fact, when I look back, I recognize that he spent many hours playing with my toys after I had wandered off next door to play with neighbors or ride my bike!

It was a cool kite, a plastic figure of a man that was hollow and could be filled with water to weight it just right according to the wind conditions. He hung from a harness that was connected to the kite section, in the shape of a parachute. I'd be the one to hold the man on the string, and when the instruction came from my father I'd launch it into the air as he tugged enthusiastically, the parachute catching the breeze and lifting quickly into the air.

And then the day came, when somewhere along the forty of fifty feet of line up to the small figure in the sky, the line broke. A stillness cam over us both, rooted to the spot, gazing up at our disappearing friend. (I'm reminded of the scene in the film, "Castaway," when Tom Hanks' character is separated from Wilson, the volleyball who has been his deep and only friend during his isolation on the island, and during the perilous journey at sea.)

Neither of us moved as the parachute became smaller and smaller, floating across and out of the park, over the distant houses, and out of sight. There was no turning back for our parachutist. He had been picked up and carried away to whatever came next.

At some time, in the not too distant future, my father too, will be picked up and carried on to whatever is next for him. No matter how hard I hold on to the string, at some stage it will break. And just as happened in the park that day, my heart will tighten and I will be lost for words, this time gazing into my heart for glimpses of him as he journeys on. And then slowly, a feeling of expansion will begin to fill me as I recognize that he is off to even greater and more beautiful things.