“We’ll return tomorrow once it beats them all”. Mom responded.
I was so excited! That August 1974 morning, Turkish airplanes were flying over the sky of Cyprus bombing the city of Famagusta.
What a game!
I was five.
Today, the only return path is my mother’s wrinkles; an ironic game of life, of perseverance.
My father is working endlessly to forget.
I guess my son gave the answer!
“Dad, grandma shouldn’t have locked it in her closet. Your kite could fly in the sky and beat them all”.