My father used to bring home kites from Pakistan, made out of colorful paper and thin sticks.
Mine was pink and blue, and caught my eye as soon as it was taken out. It was beautiful, and i imagined it soaring through the skies, viewable from all the houses in town.
The yarn was grey, and had minuscule shards of glass woven within it. My father told me that it was for kite fighting, the way they used to do it from the rooftops of the villages.
One would fly the kite and the other would be in charge of the spool. Together, they would change altitudes and attempt to cut other kite strings. The last kite left in the air would be the winner.
And my mind would run to those rooftops, the very sand ridden rooftops he had described. Imaginarily controlling the kite with a friend handling the spool behind me. Together winning the kite fighter crown, and my father being proud of his only son.
All while i lay in bed, with a grand imagination, and not a single clue on how to make the last thought a reality.