I happened to notice something strange outside my window several days ago. I was fixated on vacuuming at the time when it caught my attention. It was a dark speck, jumping into the corner of my eye, shifting my gaze from the carpet to the sky outside.

There, suspended in the distance, was a pterodactyl.

“What in the world . . .” I thought. I stopped the vacuum and went to the window. I shielded my eyes from the sun and focused on the strange, soaring object. “What kind of bird is that?” I wondered. My mind would not allow me to believe in a Jurassic-Park bird actually flying outside my window.

Then I saw the string.

It was a kite but not your average triangular variety. This was a kite that really had the look of a very large bird. It was a sight to see something so big flying so high, not deterred by the ground that anchored it.

I watched the man who held the string. He was walking backward, jumping forward, and moving his arms in long arcs, right to left then left to right. All of this movement caused the kite to sway and flap like something alive.

I tried to remember the last time that I had flown a kite, but the only memory that would come was one with my brother, a memory much older. We were young. We took a kite to the local school yard to fly in the field. We brought extra string with us and once the first spool was used we tied a second one to it. The kite reached such a height that a police helicopter eventually flew over us. A police officer shouted over a loud speaker, telling us to lower its altitude.

As I watched the stranger holding the pterodactyl by its string, I wanted to fly a kite, to claim my own piece of altitude again. Then my mind screamed, “Do it! Go fly one! Go fly a kite!”

I took hold of these words. My remembrance of my brother, me, and that kite ignited a lost sense of exhilaration as I watched that fabric bird outside my window. It moved with life. I stood there for a few minutes watching it live, then I vowed to fly one of my own this year.