The God that Failed

The God that Failed

“Faster, run faster!” he yells.
“If we’re gonna get it in the air, you gotta run faster!”

The roaring wind makes it hard to hear,
but I catch enough and pump my legs harder.

And then—
it lifts.

Soaring like I wish I could.
Rising into clouds, dipping, darting,
the string pulls tight,
straining against the wind.

My father holds firm,
steadying the kite.

I’ve waited three weeks for this windy day.
My birthday kite—finally aloft.

I skip-run back across the empty soccer field,
eyes on the sky.

Not looking, I crash into him.

“Easy there, fella. You almost knocked me over.”
Part of me wishes I had.

I push away.
“Dad, Give it to me! It’s my turn!”

“Okay, okay. You sure you can handle it?
The wind’s picking up.”

“I got this. I watched you.”

“Alright then… here ya go.”

He hands me the pin.
The string jerks.
The wind tugs.
I dig in and hold tight.

“That’s it, son. You got it!”

A gust launches it higher.
The string whirls—tightens—
jerks again.

Then—snap.

I freeze.

The kite spins upward, wild.
Then, like it remembers gravity,
it drops—
a final arc,
crashing in a heap.

“Oh no!” we cry separately.

Running.
Hoping.

But I know.

Pieces everywhere—
splintered spars, torn paper, a broken spine.

Falling to my knees, tears stream down.
I clutch the pieces to my chest.

My father kneels beside me,
pulls me close.

“Come on now,” he says softly.
“We can fix it. You’ll see.”

I don’t answer. I don’t believe him.

He’s lying. He can’t fix anything.

I hate him.