The kite Mr. Dawes Jr. had started was almost finished. He still had to make the tail and decide if he wanted to decorate it. In the days following the events at the bank an idea planted by George's grandson had begun to take shape in his mind. Probably just foolishness, he thought, but still who could really say? He retrieved Bertie's sketchbook from the library and paged through it as he remembered the events from so long ago.

He had held onto hope until the last possible moment. Jack was strong and healthy, surely he would lick this thing. Afterward, he sat with his son's body for hours unable to believe that he was really gone. It was old Mr. Dawes Sr. who badgered him out of the room and forced him to make arrangements for the visitations and funeral. He had moved like an automaton over the next three days, going through all the motions, saying the right things, but barely aware of who or what was around him. Jack's body had been moved to the church for the funeral, the parlor being too small to accommodate the family, friends and business associates who would be coming. Mr. Dawes didn't remember a word of the service or the interment. What he remembered next was the family all seated around the dining room table for the luncheon afterward.

How many were there that day? Maybe twenty including his brother, sister, his niece and her husband and all the assorted cousins. The three youngest were there too. Bertie, Lavinia and Willie sat together towards the bottom of the table and his father, Mr. Dawes Sr. sat at the head. It was during a lull in the conversation that the words were spoken. "Yes," said Mr. Dawes Sr. "A sad blow for the family, and one from which we will never recover. A pity it was Jack that was taken and not the younger boy." In the shocked silence that followed all eyes turned toward Bertie, who sat silently looking down at his plate. Then without a word to anyone he folded his napkin and quietly left the table.

His brother Albert looked at him. "Jon," he said urgently, "do something! Follow him, talk to him. Don't let him leave like that." But Mr. Dawes was rooted to his chair. Albert looked at him in disgust then stormed out of the dining room to find his nephew.

Lavinia rose to follow, but Mr. Dawes Sr. stopped her. "Sit down Lavinia until you have permission to leave." When she didn't immediately obey his father had looked at him. "Jon," he barked. "Control your daughter!"

"Lavinia, sit down!" Mr. Dawes Jr. had commanded as a white hot flame of anger began to burn inside of him. "Sit down and finish your meal!" His voice was harsh with fury, and his mind was whirling. His father was right. It wasn't fair! Why Jack and not Bertie? Why did it have to be his eldest taken and not his disappointing second son? In that moment he would have given Bertie for Jack, and in his heart he knew that Bertie had known it too. It was the unforgivable thing he had done that day. It was the reason he couldn't go after his son or speak the words that a father should be able to say.

In that moment Bertie had slipped away and Mr. Dawes had lost him forever. Not physically. For four more years they lived in the same house, but a wall of silence grew between them. Always shy around his father Bertie soon stopped speaking to him altogether, and Mr. Dawes, resolutely burying his grief and guilt, busied himself with his work and tried to avoid his son as much as possible. Bertie returned to school where he continued to struggle with his studies, but there were other problems in the years following Jack's death. The boy that had always been gentle and polite began to change in to a bitter, angry young man. He was disrespectful to his teachers. He broke rules and picked fights. He smuggled alcohol and tobacco into the dorm and sneaked off campus to drink in the local pubs. Inevitably he was expelled.

At home and away from school the behavior continued and furious fights resulted. Even Lavinia, who loved her brother, was unable to reason with him. Mr. Dawes Sr. had had enough. One night after a particularly violent quarrel he ordered Bertie out of the house and told him not to come back. Mr. Dawes Jr. remembered the look his son had given him, defiant and yet questioning, as if he wondered if this was what his father wanted also. Then without another word he turned and left. Mr. Dawes had never seen him again. Where he went and what he did, Mr. Dawes had no idea. Years passed and it seemed that most people forgot that there were three Dawes children. And then the war happened and the letter arrived and it was too late.

Mr. Dawes had spent years hiding from his guilt and responsibility but not anymore. He had ordered a headstone to place next to Jack's in the cemetery, something he should have done years ago. And he was already planning on making several large donations to individuals and institutions studying dyslexia. But those were cold ways to remember the boy in Lavinia's books. When she came to visit they would talk and find a fitting way to honor Bertie's memory. He wanted something warm and alive and fun like the boy who had drawn the pictures in the sketchbook—something that involved children and art and nature. Together they would figure out something.

Nothing would ever make up for what he had done. Mr. Dawes longed for a tangible way to let his son know that he was sorry and ask his forgiveness for the unforgivable. He sat the sketchbook aside and went in search of a pair of scissors.

Late in the afternoon on the day of the Spring Fair an elderly gentleman with snow white hair walked through the gate of the park carrying a kite. Most of the crowd had left and the fair was winding down. Mr. Dawes paused by a bench where the balloon lady was packing her cart preparing to leave.

"I'm afraid all the balloons are gone," she said.

"That's all right. I'm not much of a balloon person," said Mr. Dawes. "I came here to see if there was enough wind to fly my kite."

"It's lovely," she said with admiration. "Did you build it yourself?"

"I did," said Mr. Dawes

"And the drawings, did you do those too?"

Mr. Dawes looked down at the kite in his hands. It was beautiful, covered with drawings of animals and plants. In the middle was a sketch of a little frog playing a guitar. "No," he said softly, "my son did them when he was a boy. They've been shut up in a trunk for years. It's time they were brought out."

With the help of the park keeper, Mr. Dawes launched the kite and then used all his skills to get it high into the air. An admiring group of people gathered around to watch. The currents above were much stronger and Mr. Dawes could feel the kite pulling hard on the string. Suddenly it snapped and the kite was free.

"Oh no!" said a lady carrying a small dog. "Your beautiful kite. I'm so sorry!"

"It hasn't crashed yet. We can chase it," offered a young man. "We'll get our bikes."

"I don't think it's coming down," said an older man who looked like a retired sailor. The man in the wheelchair next to him agreed. "No, it isn't," he said. "It's almost as if it knows where it's going."

"Maybe it does," said the balloon lady smiling at Mr. Dawes as if she had a bit of secret knowledge. He thought of the sketch in the middle of the kite and the message he had written on the back. As the kite soared higher and vanished into the clouds his heart lifted with it and he smiled back at her. "Yes," he agreed. "Maybe it does."