It was Saturday. As always, it was a busy one, for "Six days shall you labor and all your work" was taken seriously back then. Outside, Father and Mr. Patrick next door were busy chopping firewood. Inside their own houses, Mother and Mrs. Patrick were engaged in spring cleaning. Somehow the boys had slipped away to the back lot with their kites. Now, even at the risk of having brother caught to beat carpets, they had sent him to the kitchen for more string . It seemed there was  no limit to the heights to which kites would fly today. My mother looked at the sitting room, its furniture disordered for a thorough sweeping. Again she cast a look toward the window. "Come on, girls! Let's take string to the boys and watch them fly the kites a minute." On the way we met Mrs. Patric, laughing guiltily as if she were doing something wrong, together with her girls. There never was such a day for flying kites! We played all our fresh string into the boys' kites and they went up higher and higher. We could hardly distinguish the orange-colored spots of the kites. Now and then we slowly pulled one kite back, watching it dancing up and down in the wind, and finally bringing it down to earth, just for the joy of sending it up again. Even our fathers dropped their tools and joined us. Our mothers took their turn, laughing like schoolgirls. I think _ . Parents forgot their duty and their dignity; children forgot their everyday fights and little jealousies. "Perhaps it's like this in the kingdom of heaven," I thought confusedly. It was growing dark before we all walked sleepily back to the housed. I suppose we had some sort of supper. I suppose there must have been surface tidying-up, for the house on Sunday looked clean and orderly enough. The strange thing was, we didn't mention that day afterward. I felt a little embarrassed. Surely none of the others had been as excited as I. I locked the memory up in that deepest part of me where we keep "the things that cannot be and yet they are." The years went on, then one day I was hurrying about my kitchen in a city apartment, trying to get some work out of the way while my three-year-old insistently cried her desire to "go park, see duck." "I can't go!" I said. "I have this and this to do, and when I'm through I'll be too tired to walk that far." My mother, who was visiting us, looked up from the peas she was shelling. "It's a wonderful day," she offered, "really warm, yet there's a fine breeze. Do you remember that day we flew kites?" I stopped in my dash between stove and sink. The locked door flew open and with it a rush of memories. "Come on," I told my little girl. "You're right, it's too good a day to miss." Another decade passed. We were in the aftermath  of a great war. All evening we had been asking our returned soldier, the youngest Patrick Boy, about his experiences as a prisoner of war. He had talked freely, but now for a long time he had been silent. What was he thinking of --- what dark and horrible things? "Say!" A smile sipped out from his lips. "Do you remember --- no, of course you wouldn't. It probably didn't make the impression on you as it did on me." I hardly dared speak. "Remember what?" "I used to think of that day a lot in POW camp  , when things weren't too good. Do you remember the day we flew the kites?" What did the author think after the kite-flying?
The boys must have had more fun than the girls. They should have finished their work before playing. Her parents should spend more time with them. All the others must have forgotten that day.