The Kite That Flew Past the Moon

There was once a boy named Olle. He lived in a little yellow house at the foot of a hill. In the morning he woke up and felt the wind against the window. The wind whispered softly. It wanted to play.

Olle sat down at the kitchen table. On it lay a big sheet of yellow paper. Beside it lay four straight birch sticks and a ball of white string. Mama smiled and said, 'Today is a good day to build a kite.' Olle nodded. He had waited a long time.

He laid the sticks in a cross. Two long, two short. He tied them with the string. His fingers were small but careful. He set the paper on top and folded the corners gently. It went rustle, rustle, as the paper bent.

Then he tied a long tail of yellow ribbon. He tied small bows all along the tail. One, two, three, four. He counted quietly. When the kite was finished, he held it up. It was light as a feather. It was yellow as the sun.

Olle put on his hat and mittens. He went outside. The wind met him at the gate. It blew through his hair. It blew on his cheeks. It tugged gently at the kite's tail, as if to say: come, come up to the hill.

He walked up the path. The grass bent low. The dandelions nodded. At the very top of the hill he stopped. He looked out over the village. He saw his own little yellow house. He saw the clouds, which were like soft pillows in the sky.

Olle let the kite go slowly. The wind took it. It lifted. First just a little, just over his head. Then higher. And higher. The string ran between his fingers. He laughed out loud. It was an ordinary afternoon. And yet it was not.

The kite rose past the swallows. The swallows watched. They whispered to each other, 'Where is it going?' The kite just smiled with its tail of yellow bows. The wind carried it on. Olle stood still and looked up. He felt the string tremble, soft and warm.