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Kites
Kites.
On a humid hot February day, as Bill was keeping cool by immersing himself in the pool and drinking a long cool lager or two, he gazed again at the message. ‘Meet me where the Kites fly’. No other words to enlighten him. Bill scratched his chin, always an aid to get his brain into gear. No time, no date merely ‘Meet me where the Kites fly.’ He thought he recognised the writing, but the name of the writer didn’t jump into his mouth. ‘Oh! It will come.’ He thought, ‘probably at three in the morning. I won’t think about it anymore it is too hot to think anyway.’
He had found the note that morning in his mailbox, no envelope so hand delivered he deduced. The writing that he thought he knew was definitely feminine, in particular the flourish across the ‘t’.
Of course, once your brain is puzzled, you just have to keep thinking. Bill had many hobbies and in his younger days had traveled widely. His main hobby was bird watching, a twitcher, he loved the sound of that word. It is one of those words that fires the imagination. Kites were one of his favourite birds, to be up close to them was always a thrill, they were the acrobats of flight. In 1990 he had taken the advantage of having long service leave to take a trip to Europe. He visited all the usual sights, but the highlight of his trip was in Wales, there he had gone to the ‘Gigrin Red Kite Feeding Centre’. It was his first…
