I had just left my mother in law’s home when we drove by a girl with her back towards us, three or four steps from the sidewalk onto the street. She was black with her hair up, spaghetti straps and flip flops, relaxed, flying a kite. We couldn’t really see it, only her hand motion and a tiny silver line going upwards. As she heard the motorcycle, she turned a bit and looked at us with the corner of her eye, and we could see her baby bump barely covered, probably seven months or so. She looked young and he told me she was probably fifteen or so, he had met her as a very young child when he still lived with his parents.

I remembered having learned how to build a kite in one of those arts projects children inevitably do at school, or for father’s day maybe. I could vaguely see my dad with his perennial cap in such afternoon helping me and my sister to try to fly it. It was something we certainly did only once or twice in such special occasions, we were caught up in other amusements by then. My sister with dogs and sports, me with the tv or a book or those ridiculous teenage girl’s magazines. We were a clichê of what different personalities would be, to a passer-by.