The afternoon winds in the peaks around Our Town are very reliable. Almost exactly two hours before sunset, on a particular ridge, the wind simply stops.
It's my timer.
Every now and then, I take my octahedral box, or the tailed diamond – one of the sturdier designs – up there by myself and let soar. I hang my troubles on a line and float them up to the clouds, or the sun.
I find space from my worries and doubts and memories and I get to think. About my town, and my friends. About myself. About where I am, and where I want to be.
When the wind stops, I spool up the thread, set my burdens on my back, and return home to work.
It's important, and it's nice.
But sometimes it is a bit lonely.