The yellow kite
When I was a little girl, I had a yellow kite with a Carebear on it. I don’t remember it, but there are dozens of photos of dad and I playing with it in the backyard. Me and the kite. Him and the kite. Me and him and the kite. The kite in the tree. The kite wrapped around the swing. The kite in the veggie garden. The kite hitting my little brother. The cat chasing the kite.
Every photo tells the story of a little blonde girl running and laughing with her dad. For years I wondered why my mum didn’t want to play with us. Was she working, or away, or cleaning, or with her friends? I couldn’t understand what could be more important than watching your kid play with a kite. I resented her for it. Fiercely. Because those are the kinds of grudges I hold.
It wasn’t until recently that I realised she must have been taking the photos.
Now I imagine my kids looking at pictures of their childhood and wondering where I was, and whether I can trick them into thinking I was just out of view behind the camera.