Speaker 1: Us studious the Kite Festival. The morning of the Kite
Speaker 1: Festival always began with the wind. Not the harsh, unpredictable
Speaker 1: gusts that rattled windows in winter, but a softer kind
Speaker 1: of wind, the kind that arrived in late April, carrying
Speaker 1: the smell of cut grass and river water and the
Speaker 1: faint sweetness of lilac blossoms from the gardens along Maple Street.
Speaker 1: Mira could feel it the moment she woke up, pressing
Speaker 1: gently against her bedroom window, lifting the curtain at the corner,
Speaker 1: and letting a thin blade of sunlight fall across her pillow.
Speaker 1: She lay still for a moment, listening to the sound
Speaker 1: it made against the glass, a low, steady whisper, and
Speaker 1: she knew that to day would be a good day
Speaker 1: for flying. Her mother was already in the kitchen when
Speaker 1: Mira came downstairs, standing at the counter with a cup
Speaker 1: of coffee in one hand and a recipe card in
Speaker 1: the other. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and butter, and
Speaker 1: on the counter beside the stove sat a plate of
Speaker 1: sugar cookies shaped like stars and crescent moons. Mira's mother
Speaker 1: had stayed up late the night before, cutting them out
Speaker 1: with small metal molds, and the edges were sharp and precise,
Speaker 1: the way her mother did everything morning, her mother said,
Speaker 1: without looking up, Eat something, you'll need your energy. Mira
Speaker 1: sat at the table and took a cookie. It was
Speaker 1: still warm, the cinnamon sharp and sweet on her tongue,
Speaker 1: and she chewed slowly while watching the curtain in the
Speaker 1: living room. With the wind outside. Through the window, she
Speaker 1: could see the tops of the oak trees bending slightly,
Speaker 1: their new leaves catching the light and turning it into
Speaker 1: something green and alive. The sky above was pale blue,
Speaker 1: almost white near the horizon, deepening to a clear, bright
Speaker 1: azure directly overhead. No clouds, not a single one. His
Speaker 1: dad setting up, Mirah asked, since six. Her mother said,
Speaker 1: your brother's helping him with the stakes. Go finish your
Speaker 1: breakfast and then get dressed. We need to be at
Speaker 1: the park by nine. The kite Festival had been a
Speaker 1: tradition in the town of Renfield for longer than any
Speaker 1: one could remember. The older residence claimed it started in
Speaker 1: the nineteen fifties when a teacher at the elementary school
Speaker 1: brought in a kite she had made with her students
Speaker 1: and flew it on the school lawn during lunch. The
Speaker 1: story went that a farmer driving by on the county
Speaker 1: road saw it, a bright red diamond against the blue sky,
Speaker 1: and it reminded him of something he had forgotten, something
Speaker 1: about being a boy in a field with a string
Speaker 1: in his hand. He went home and made a kite
Speaker 1: of his own, and the next year he brought it
Speaker 1: to the same field, and there were three kites, and
Speaker 1: then five, and then twenty, and then the festival was born,
Speaker 1: growing a little each year until it became the thing
Speaker 1: that Renfield was known for, the event that brought people
Speaker 1: from neighboring towns, the week end that everyone in Renfield
Speaker 1: marked on their calendars and read. The festival was held
Speaker 1: at Littlebrook Park, a wide open stretch of grass between
Speaker 1: the river and the old mill building, now converted into
Speaker 1: a community center. The park had a gentle slope that
Speaker 1: rose from the river bank to a low hill at
Speaker 1: the northern end, and on festival day the hill was
Speaker 1: covered with families and blankets and coolers and folding chairs,
Speaker 1: and the sky above was filled with kites of every
Speaker 1: size and color and shape, diamond kites and delta kites,
Speaker 1: box kites and parafoil kites, kites shaped like dragons and
Speaker 1: butterflies and fish and birds, Kites with long streaming tails
Speaker 1: that twisted and curled in the wind, like living things.
Speaker 1: The sound they made was unlike any other sound Mirah
Speaker 1: had ever heard of, fluttering, rustling, whistling, chorus that rose
Speaker 1: and fell with the wind, punctuated by the laughter of children,
Speaker 1: and the occasional snap of a kite string pulled too tight.
Speaker 1: Maria had been to the festival every year of her life.
Speaker 1: As a baby, she had been carried in her mother's arms,
Speaker 1: wrapped in a blanket, watching the sky with wide, uncomprehending eyes.
Speaker 1: As a toddler, she had sat on her father's shoulders,
Speaker 1: pointing at the kites and shrieking with delight every time
Speaker 1: one dipped or spun. As a young girl, she had
Speaker 1: run across the grass with the other children, chasing the
Speaker 1: shadows of kites as they swept over the ground, trying
Speaker 1: to catch the long, colorful tails that streamed behind them.
Speaker 1: But she had never flown a kite herself. She had
Speaker 1: never held the string in her own hands and felt
Speaker 1: the kite pull against her fingers, and watched it rise
Speaker 1: under her own control into the sky. This year, her
Speaker 1: father had said, would be different. This year, he had
Speaker 1: made her a kite. He had spent three weeks on it,
Speaker 1: working in the garage after dinner while Mira did her
Speaker 1: home work at the kitchen table. She could hear him
Speaker 1: out there, the sound of wood being measured and cut,
Speaker 1: the soft rasp of sand paper, the occasional muffled word
Speaker 1: when he nicked his finger or dropped a tool. She
Speaker 1: was not allowed to see it until it was finished,
Speaker 1: and she had to resist the temptation to sneak out
Speaker 1: to the garage and peak, which was difficult because the
Speaker 1: garage door was only half closed and she could see
Speaker 1: the glow of his work light through the gap. Her
Speaker 1: father was a quiet man, the kind of person who
Speaker 1: showed his love through actions rather than words. He worked
Speaker 1: at the post office six days a week, sorting letters
Speaker 1: and packages with the same steady patience he brought to
Speaker 1: everything else. He did not talk much about his feelings,
Speaker 1: but he remembered things. He remembered that Mira loved the
Speaker 1: color yellow. He remembered that she was afraid of bees,
Speaker 1: but not wasps, for reasons she could not explain. He
Speaker 1: remembered that she had once said when she was six
Speaker 1: that she wanted to fly, and he had held her
Speaker 1: hand and said, maybe not today, but someday. And now
Speaker 1: it seemed he had decided that some day was today.
Speaker 1: The finished kite was waiting for them at the park.
Speaker 1: Mira's father and brother had driven over at dawn to
Speaker 1: claim their spot on the hill and set up the
Speaker 1: canopy in the foldy chairs. When Mira and her mother arrived,
Speaker 1: carrying the cooler and the blanket, the kite was already
Speaker 1: leaning against the canopy pole, and Mira stopped walking and stared.
Speaker 1: It was a diamond kite, traditional in shape, but her
Speaker 1: father had painted it by hand. The background was sky blue,
Speaker 1: the same shade as the morning sky, and across it
Speaker 1: he had painted a constellation orion in small, precise dots
Speaker 1: of white and yellow. The stars were connected by thin
Speaker 1: lines of silver paint, and at the center of the
Speaker 1: constellation he had painted a tiny, perfect nebula, a swirl
Speaker 1: of pink and blue that looked like a small, bright
Speaker 1: cloud floating in the painted sky. The tail was made
Speaker 1: of narrow strips of fabric white and blue and silver,
Speaker 1: sewn together and tied in a long flowing ribbon that
Speaker 1: stretched nearly six feet behind the kite, dad, Mira said,
Speaker 1: did you paint this? Her father was adjusting the canopy,
Speaker 1: his back to her. He turned and looked at the
Speaker 1: kite and then at Mira, and he smiled the way
Speaker 1: he always smiled, quietly, the smile reaching his eyes but
Speaker 1: not his mouth. Took a few tries, he said, the
Speaker 1: nebula was hard. Had to watch a video to get
Speaker 1: the colors right. Mira walked closer and touched the painted surface.
Speaker 1: The paint was smooth under her fingers, sealed with a
Speaker 1: clear coat that gave it a faint sheen. She could
Speaker 1: see the individual brushstrokes if she looked closely, the small
Speaker 1: imperfections that told her this was made by Aunt, by
Speaker 1: her father, for her, And something in her chest tightened
Speaker 1: in the way it did when she received a gift
Speaker 1: that was more than a thing, when the gift was
Speaker 1: a sentence in a language she was only beginning to learn.
Speaker 1: Come on, her brother said, he was twelve, two years
Speaker 1: older than Mira, and he had already unpacked his own kite,
Speaker 1: a bright orange delta with a wingspan whiter than his arms.
Speaker 1: Let's get these in the air. Her brother's kite was
Speaker 1: the first to launch. He was a experience now, having
Speaker 1: flown at the festival for three years running, and he
Speaker 1: knew exactly how to read the wind. He stood at
Speaker 1: the top of the hill, held the kite behind him
Speaker 1: with one hand and the spool in the other, and
Speaker 1: waited for a gust. When it came, he let go
Speaker 1: and ran three steps forward, paying out line. As the
Speaker 1: kite caught the wind and lifted, it rose quickly, climbing
Speaker 1: at a steep angle, the orange wings cutting through the air.
Speaker 1: With a faint, satisfying whistle. Her brother planted his feet
Speaker 1: braced against the pole and began to feed out more line,
Speaker 1: and the kite climbed higher and higher, until it was
Speaker 1: just a bright orange speck against the blue, dancing and
Speaker 1: bobbing in the wind like a living thing. Your turn,
Speaker 1: her father said. Mirah took the kite in her hands.
Speaker 1: It was lighter than she expected, the frame made up
Speaker 1: of thin, flexible bamboo that bent slightly when she pressed it,
Speaker 1: the fabric taut and smooth. She could feel the wind
Speaker 1: against her face, steady and warm, and she could hear
Speaker 1: the other kites around her, dozens of them now, their
Speaker 1: tails streaming and their strings humming, and the sound made
Speaker 1: something flutter in her chest, a mixture of excitement and
Speaker 1: fear that she did not quite know what to do with.
Speaker 1: Hold the spool in your left hand, her father said,
Speaker 1: standing behind her, and the kite in your right. Keep
Speaker 1: the string taut. When you feel the wind, take it.
Speaker 1: Let go. Don't throw it, just let go which direction
Speaker 1: into the wind? Always into the wind. The wind has
Speaker 1: to go over the kite to lift it. If you
Speaker 1: throw it with the wind, it'll just fall. Mira turned
Speaker 1: to face the wind. It came from the west, from
Speaker 1: the direction of the river, carrying the smell of water
Speaker 1: and wet stone. She held the kite behind her, feeling
Speaker 1: the wind press against its surface, pushing it forward, trying
Speaker 1: to take it from her hand. The string was looped
Speaker 1: around the wooden spool in her left hand, and she
Speaker 1: held the spool tight, feeling the rough texture of the
Speaker 1: bamboo against her palm. Ready, her father said, Mira nodded,
Speaker 1: then let go. She released her grip and the kite lifted.
Speaker 1: For a moment, it wobbled, tipping left and then right, uncertain,
Speaker 1: the tail tangling slightly in the wind. Mira gasped and
Speaker 1: took a step forward, as if she could follow it
Speaker 1: into the air, but her father put a hand on
Speaker 1: her shoulder and held her back. Let it find the wind,
Speaker 1: he said, give it a second. The kite wabbled again,
Speaker 1: dipping low, almost touching the grass, and Mirah felt her
Speaker 1: stomach drop. But then the wind shifted just slightly, just enough,
Speaker 1: and the kite caught it and straightened, and the tail
Speaker 1: unwound itself and streamed behind it in a long, flowing
Speaker 1: ribbon of white and blue and silver. The kite rose slowly,
Speaker 1: at first gaining a foot, then losing half a foot,
Speaker 1: then gaining another foot, and then more steadily, climbing at
Speaker 1: a gentle angle into the sky, the string paying out
Speaker 1: through Mira's fingers in a steady, vibrating line. She watched
Speaker 1: it go, her head tilted back, her mouth slightly open.
Speaker 1: The painted constellation was just visible Orion's belt, three small
Speaker 1: points of light against the blue, and the nebula was
Speaker 1: a tiny swirling cloud of pink and glue that caught
Speaker 1: the sunlight and glowed. The tail streamed behind it, twisting
Speaker 1: and curling in the wind, and the kite climbed higher
Speaker 1: and higher until it was above the rooftops of the
Speaker 1: houses along the river, above the branches of the tallest
Speaker 1: oak tree, above the power lines, rising into the wide
Speaker 1: open sky where the other kites were dancing. I'm doing it,
Speaker 1: Mirah whispered, Dad, I'm doing it. Her father smiled, you are.
Speaker 1: The kite was pulling now, a steady, insistent tug on
Speaker 1: the string that Mirah could feel in her wrist and
Speaker 1: her forearm and her shoulder. It was stronger than she expected,
Speaker 1: the wind more powerful at this height, and she had
Speaker 1: to brace her feet on the grass and lean back
Speaker 1: slightly to counter the pole. But it was not unpleasant.
Speaker 1: It was like holding hands with the wind, a firm
Speaker 1: grape that said iron here, hold on. And she held on,
Speaker 1: feeling the string vibrate against her fingers like a live wire,
Speaker 1: like a pulse around her. The festival was in full bloom.
Speaker 1: The hill was covered with people, families and couples and
Speaker 1: groups of friends, all of them looking up at the
Speaker 1: sky where the kites were flying. Mira could count at
Speaker 1: least fifty kites, maybe more, filling the sky. In every direction.
Speaker 1: There was a dragon kite, its body made of dozens
Speaker 1: of small, connected segments that undulated in the wind like
Speaker 1: a serpent. There was a kite shaped like a butterfly,
Speaker 1: its wings painted in brulinant orange and black, the edges
Speaker 1: trimmed with gold. There were simple diamond kites in every
Speaker 1: color of the rainbow, and delta kites with wingspans as
Speaker 1: wide as a door, and box kites that stood upright
Speaker 1: in the air like small floating houses. And there were
Speaker 1: the tails, hundreds of them, streaming and twisting and curling
Speaker 1: behind the kites, filling the sky with ribbons of color
Speaker 1: that moved and shifted with the wind, creating patterns that
Speaker 1: changed every second, patterns that no one had designed, but
Speaker 1: that were beautiful precisely because they were unplanned, because they
Speaker 1: were the product of the wind and the fabric. And
Speaker 1: the patient, invisible hand of the air mirror stood on
Speaker 1: the hill and held her string and watched her kite fly,
Speaker 1: and she felt something she could not quite name. It
Speaker 1: was like joy, but quieter, deeper, a feeling that started
Speaker 1: in her chest and spread outward through her arms and
Speaker 1: her legs and the top of her head. A feeling
Speaker 1: of connection, of being linked to the kite by the thin,
Speaker 1: vibrating string, and through the kite to the wind, and
Speaker 1: through the wind to the sky, and through the sky
Speaker 1: to something vast and ancient and patient that she had
Speaker 1: no word for, but that she could feel the same
Speaker 1: way she could feel the sun on her face and
Speaker 1: the grass beneath her feet. Her mother came and stood
Speaker 1: beside her, holding two paper cups of lemonade. Here, she said,
Speaker 1: handing one to Mira, you look like you could use
Speaker 1: a drink. Mira took the lemonade without looking away from
Speaker 1: the kite. The cup was cold in her hand, condensation
Speaker 1: running down the sides, and she took a sip and
Speaker 1: felt the sharp, sweet liquid slide down her throat. The
Speaker 1: lemonade was from the concession stand near the mill building,
Speaker 1: where a group of volunteers sold drinks and snacks to
Speaker 1: raise money for the park. The stand was a long
Speaker 1: table under a strip dawning, and behind it stood missus Abernathy,
Speaker 1: who had been running it for as long as Mira
Speaker 1: could remember, a tall woman with white hair and a
Speaker 1: voice like a foghorn, who called every one dear and
Speaker 1: always gave Mira an extra cooky. Your father worked very
Speaker 1: hard on that kite, her mother said. He stayed up
Speaker 1: past midnight two nights in a row. I know, Mira said,
Speaker 1: I heard him in the garage. He wanted it to
Speaker 1: be perfect. Mira looked at the kite again, at the
Speaker 1: painted constellation, at the nebula with its swirl of pink
Speaker 1: and blue, at the long flowing tail, and she felt
Speaker 1: the tightness in her chest again, the one that was
Speaker 1: not quite sadness and not quite happiness, but somewhere in between,
Speaker 1: the feeling of being loved so specifically and so carefully
Speaker 1: that it almost hurt. It is, she said, it's perfect.
Speaker 1: Her mother put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently,
Speaker 1: and they stood together and watched the sky. The morning passed,
Speaker 1: the sun climbed higher, warming the hill, and the wind
Speaker 1: shifted and steadied, and the kites rose and fell and
Speaker 1: rose again. Mirah learned to read the wind, to feel
Speaker 1: its changes in the string, to know when a gust
Speaker 1: was coming by the way the other kites leaned and dipped.
Speaker 1: She learned to walk with the kite, moving up the
Speaker 1: hill when the wind weakened, and down when it strengthened,
Speaker 1: keeping the string taut, keeping the kite steady. She learned
Speaker 1: to reel in, turning the spool slowly, feeling the kite
Speaker 1: resist and then yield, dropping corridor in a wide, graceful arc,
Speaker 1: and then to let it out again, paying out line
Speaker 1: as it climbed back into the wind. At midday, her
Speaker 1: father brought hot dogs from the grill near the mill,
Speaker 1: and they sat on their blanket and ate them. The
Speaker 1: mustard sharp and the buns saw, and Mira's kite hung
Speaker 1: in the sky above them, tethered to the canopy pole
Speaker 1: by a length of rope her father had tied with
Speaker 1: a bowline knot. The other families on the hill were
Speaker 1: eating two and the smell of charcoal and hot dogs
Speaker 1: and popcorn drifted across the grass, mingling with the smell
Speaker 1: of the river and the cut grass and the lilacs.
Speaker 1: Her brother had gone off with his friends, a group
Speaker 1: of boys who ran from kite to kite, comparing strings
Speaker 1: and challenging each other to see whose kite could fly
Speaker 1: the highest. Mira could see his orange delta far above
Speaker 1: the hill, higher than almost any other kite, a bright
Speaker 1: speck near the top of the sky. She felt a small,
Speaker 1: sharp pang of envy, the kind she had learned to
Speaker 1: expect from her brother, who was better at most things
Speaker 1: than she was, and who did not try to hide it.
Speaker 1: But the feeling passed quickly, replaced by the steady, warm
Speaker 1: pull of her own kite in her hands, and she
Speaker 1: focused on that instead. After lunch, Mira's father taught her
Speaker 1: a trick. If you want it to climb, he said,
Speaker 1: give it a sharp tug on the string, just one,
Speaker 1: quick and hard. The kite will think the wind is
Speaker 1: stronger than it is and it'll pull up. Mirror tried it.
Speaker 1: She gave the string a quick tug, pulling down and
Speaker 1: then releasing, and the kite responded immediately, surging upward, climbing
Speaker 1: two or three body lengths in a single leap. She laughed,
Speaker 1: a sound that surprised her because she had not meant
Speaker 1: to make it, and she tugged again, and the kite
Speaker 1: climbed again, and she felt the string hum against her
Speaker 1: fingers with the increased tension. That's it, her father's said,
Speaker 1: you're a natural. Mira was not sure she was a natural.
Speaker 1: She was sure that she was doing something that felt right,
Speaker 1: something that matched the rhythm of the wind and the
Speaker 1: movement of the kite, something that was not learned, but
Speaker 1: remembered as if she had always known how to do this,
Speaker 1: and was only now remembering. She stood on the hill
Speaker 1: with the wind in her hair and the sun on
Speaker 1: her face, and the string vibrating in her hands, and
Speaker 1: she felt the kite pulling against her, steady and alive,
Speaker 1: and she pulled back, and they held each other, the
Speaker 1: girl and the kite, connected by a thin line of nylon,
Speaker 1: suspended between the earth and the sky. Before the afternoon
Speaker 1: crowds arrived, Mira wandered away from the blanket and walked
Speaker 1: down toward the river. The path was lined with willow trees,
Speaker 1: their long trailing branches brushing the ground like curtains, and
Speaker 1: the grass beneath them was cool and soft, still damp
Speaker 1: from the morning dew. The river moved slowly here, wide
Speaker 1: and brown from the spring rain, carrying small leaves and
Speaker 1: bits of tugue on its surface. Mira sat on the
Speaker 1: bank and watched the water. And the water moved past
Speaker 1: her in a steady, unhurried current, and the sound of
Speaker 1: it was the most peaceful sound she had ever heard.
Speaker 1: A dragon fly landed on her knee. It was green, iridescent,
Speaker 1: its wings catching the sunlight and splitting it into tiny rainbows.
Speaker 1: It sat there for a moment perfectly still, and then
Speaker 1: it lifted off and darted away over the water, its
Speaker 1: wings a blur. Mira watched it go and thought about
Speaker 1: how small things could be so beautiful, how a dragon
Speaker 1: fly's wings could hold more color than a kite, how
Speaker 1: a river could hold more peace than a cathedral. She
Speaker 1: stayed by the river for fifteen minutes, listening to the
Speaker 1: water and watching the dragon flies and the occasional fish
Speaker 1: that broke the surface with a small silver splash. The
Speaker 1: sounds of the festival drifted across the grass, the fluttering
Speaker 1: of kites and the laughter of children, and the faint,
Speaker 1: rhythmic thump of a speaker near the mill building, where
Speaker 1: some one was playing folk music. The music was soft
Speaker 1: and steady, the kind of music that did not demand attention,
Speaker 1: but simply existed, like the wind or the river, filling
Speaker 1: the spaces between the other sounds with something warm and familiar.
Speaker 1: When she walked back up the hill, she found her
Speaker 1: mother talking to Missus Abernathy, who had come up from
Speaker 1: the concession stand with a paper bag of caramel corn.
Speaker 1: Missus Abernathy handed the bag to Mira with a wink
Speaker 1: and said, you looked like you needed a break. Deer.
Speaker 1: The river has a way of doing that to people.
Speaker 1: Mara fook the bag and thanked her and ate the
Speaker 1: caramel corn as she climbed back to their spot on
Speaker 1: the hill, the pieces sweet and crunchy, sticking to her fingers,
Speaker 1: and she licked each finger clean and watched the sky.
Speaker 1: In the afternoon, the festival reached its peak. Every family
Speaker 1: on the hill had their kite in the air, and
Speaker 1: the sky was so full of color that Mia could
Speaker 1: barely find patches of blue between them. Near the mill building,
Speaker 1: some one had set up a kite making workshop under
Speaker 1: a large canvas tent. Mira wandered over after eating her
Speaker 1: hot dog and found a long table covered with paper,
Speaker 1: bamboo strips, string, glue, and paint. A man in a
Speaker 1: wide brimmed hat was showing a group of children how
Speaker 1: to make simple diamond kites from newspaper and sticks, his
Speaker 1: hands moving with the easy confidence of some one who
Speaker 1: had done this a hundred times before. He folded the
Speaker 1: paper with precise, deliberate movements, creasing each fold with the
Speaker 1: back of his thumb nail, and the children watched with
Speaker 1: wide eyes, their hands still, their mouths slightly open. Every
Speaker 1: kite starts with a fold, the man said. Pressing the
Speaker 1: newspaper flat, you fold the paper over the spine, like
Speaker 1: closing a book. Then you tape the sticks to the edges,
Speaker 1: one vertical, one horizontal, and you tie the string to
Speaker 1: all four corners. The string is what holds the shape.
Speaker 1: Without the string, the paper would just flap in the wind.
Speaker 1: With the string, it becomes a wing. Mira stood at
Speaker 1: the edge of the tent and watched. The man was
Speaker 1: building a kite from nothing, from paper and sticks and string,
Speaker 1: and the process was both simple and miraculous. The way
Speaker 1: the flat sheet of newspaper became something that could fly,
Speaker 1: could climb into the sky and ride the wind, could
Speaker 1: carry a person's breath and a child's wonder into the air.
Speaker 1: She thought about her father's kite, the painted constellation, the nebula,
Speaker 1: the hours of careful work in the garage, and she
Speaker 1: understood now that every kite was a kind of promise,
Speaker 1: a way of saying, I made this for you, I
Speaker 1: made this to fly, I made this to carry something
Speaker 1: of me into the sky. The dragon kite had been
Speaker 1: joined by a phoenix, its wings spread wide, painted in
Speaker 1: shades of red and gold that blazed in the sunlight.
Speaker 1: A group of teenagers had built a kite out of
Speaker 1: garbage bags and sticks, a crude, lopsided thing that somehow
Speaker 1: flew better than most of the professional kites, thig zagging
Speaker 1: across the sky with an energy that made everyone laugh.
Speaker 1: A small girl near the bottom of the hill was
Speaker 1: flying a kite shaped like a cat, orange and white,
Speaker 1: with a long fluffy tail that bobbed behind it, and
Speaker 1: she was spinning in circles, following the kite's movements with
Speaker 1: her body, her laughter ringing across the grass. Maire watched
Speaker 1: it all from her spot on the hill, her kite
Speaker 1: steady above her, and she felt the deep, quiet satisfaction
Speaker 1: of being part of something, not just the festival, though
Speaker 1: the festival was part of it, but the larger thing,
Speaker 1: the thing that connected all these people and all these kites,
Speaker 1: and all this color and sound and motion. She thought
Speaker 1: about the woman who had brought the first kite to
Speaker 1: the school on sixty years ago, a red diamond against
Speaker 1: the blue sky, and she wondered if the woman had
Speaker 1: known what she was starting, if she had imagined this,
Speaker 1: the hill covered with families, the sky filled with kites,
Speaker 1: the sound of laughter and wind and nylon fabrics snapping
Speaker 1: in the air. At three o'clock, the wind died. It
Speaker 1: happened slowly, over the course of fifteen or twenty minutes,
Speaker 1: the steady west wind that had been carrying the kites
Speaker 1: all day weakening and shifting first to the southwest, and
Speaker 1: then to the south, and then to nothing at all.
Speaker 1: The kites felt it before the people did. They began
Speaker 1: to sag, their tails drooping, their bodies tipping sideways, and
Speaker 1: the strings went slack, curving in long, loose arcs instead
Speaker 1: of the tight, straight lines they had held all day.
Speaker 1: One by one, kites began to fall, drifting down toward
Speaker 1: the ground in slow, graceful spir their owners running beneath
Speaker 1: them to catch them before they hit the grass. Mirror's
Speaker 1: kite fell first. The string went limp in her hands,
Speaker 1: and the kite tipped to the left and began a long,
Speaker 1: slow descent, the tail streaming behind it like a banner.
Speaker 1: Mirror reeled in frantically, turning the spool as fast as
Speaker 1: she could, but the kite was falling faster than she
Speaker 1: could reel, and it dropped toward the hill in a
Speaker 1: wide arc, passing over the heads of the families below,
Speaker 1: and finally touched down on the grass at the edge
Speaker 1: of the slope, its tail settling around it like a blanket.
Speaker 1: Mir stood very still, holding the slack string and looked
Speaker 1: at the sky. It was empty now, Not a single
Speaker 1: kite remained in the air. The dragon had folded its
Speaker 1: wings and lay in a heap of fabric near the
Speaker 1: river bank. The phoenix had come down in the parking lot,
Speaker 1: its gold and red wings spread flat on the asphalt.
Speaker 1: The garbage bag kite had landed in a tree and
Speaker 1: was hanging from a branch, spinning slowly in the fading breeze.
Speaker 1: All around the hill, people were reeling in their kites
Speaker 1: and packing up their things, folding their chairs and rolling
Speaker 1: up their blankets, and the sound of conversation had shifted
Speaker 1: from the bright, excited chatter of the morning to the quieter,
Speaker 1: more reflective murmur of an afternoon winding down. Mirah reeled
Speaker 1: in the last of her string and walked down the
Speaker 1: hill to where her kite had landed. She picked it
Speaker 1: up carefully, holding it by the frame, and looked at it.
Speaker 1: The paint was undamaged, the constellation still visible, the nebula
Speaker 1: still a swirl of pink and blue. The tail was
Speaker 1: tangled but intact. She carried it back to their blanket
Speaker 1: and set it down, and her father handed her a
Speaker 1: bottle of water, and she sat and drank it and
Speaker 1: looked at the sky. Is it over? She asked. Her
Speaker 1: father sat beside her and looked at the sky too.
Speaker 1: The wind had picked up slightly, a gentle breeze from
Speaker 1: the east, now carrying the smell of the river and
Speaker 1: the first hint of evening cool. The sun was beginning
Speaker 1: its descent toward the western hills, the light turning from
Speaker 1: white to gold, and the shadows of the trees along
Speaker 1: the river were growing longer, reaching across the grass like
Speaker 1: dark outstretched arms. It's not over, her father said, it
Speaker 1: just changed. Mira did not understand what he meant. The
Speaker 1: kites were all down, the festival was ending, the families
Speaker 1: were packing up. But then she noticed something on the hill.
Speaker 1: A few people had not left. A man with a
Speaker 1: small square kite was walking up the slope, testing the
Speaker 1: new breeze with his hand. A woman with a child
Speaker 1: on her hip was standing at the top of the
Speaker 1: hill looking at the sky, waiting, and her brother was
Speaker 1: already untying his orange delta from the canopy pole, a
Speaker 1: determined look on his face. The wind always comes back,
Speaker 1: her father said, it just changes direction. You have to
Speaker 1: be patient. They waited. The breeze strengthened. It was different
Speaker 1: from the morning wind, coming from the east instead of
Speaker 1: the west, cooler, carrying the smell of the river instead
Speaker 1: of the lilacs. But it was steady, and it was
Speaker 1: strong enough, and one by one the kite that had
Speaker 1: fallen began to rise again. The man with the square
Speaker 1: kite launched it first, and it climbed quickly in the
Speaker 1: new wind, its tail streaming behind it. Then the woman
Speaker 1: at the top of the hill let go of her delta,
Speaker 1: and it caught the breeze and soared. Then Mira's brother,
Speaker 1: who had always been impatient, launched his orange kite with
Speaker 1: a rudding start, and watched it climb into the golden sky.
Speaker 1: Mira stood and picked up her kite. The wind pressed
Speaker 1: against its surface, pushing it gently, and she felt the
Speaker 1: old excitement return, the flutter in her chest, the catch
Speaker 1: in her breath. She held the kite behind her, felt
Speaker 1: the wind take it and let go. The kite rose
Speaker 1: not as quickly as it had that morning, the east
Speaker 1: wind weaker than the west, but steadily climbing a foot
Speaker 1: at a time, the tail finding its shape, the string
Speaker 1: tightening in Mira's hand. She watched it go, the painted
Speaker 1: constellation growing smaller as the kite climbed higher, and she
Speaker 1: felt the string vibrate against her fingers, that same steady,
Speaker 1: living pulse, and she knew that this was the thing
Speaker 1: she would remember, Not the morning, not the falling, but
Speaker 1: this moment, the moment when the wind changed and the
Speaker 1: kite rose again, the moment when the sky turned gold
Speaker 1: and the festival found its second life. The families on
Speaker 1: the hill had stopped packing. They were standing now, looking up,
Speaker 1: watching the kites return to the sky. Someone started clapping,
Speaker 1: a slow rhythmic clap that spread across the hill, and
Speaker 1: then others joined in, and then someone laughed, and the
Speaker 1: sound of it all, the clapping and the laughter, and
Speaker 1: the wind, and the kites rose into the golden air
Speaker 1: and filled the sky from edge to edge. Mira stood
Speaker 1: on the hill and held her kite and felt the
Speaker 1: wind pull at her, steady and alive, and she pulled back,
Speaker 1: and they held each other. The string hummed, the tail streamed,
Speaker 1: the painted orion danced in the golden light, and the sky,
Speaker 1: which had been empty, was full again, full of color
Speaker 1: and motion and the quiet, persistent miracle of flight. After
Speaker 1: the last kites came down, Mirah and her father walked
Speaker 1: down to the river. The families were packing up behind them,
Speaker 1: the hill slowly emptying, but by the river it was quiet.
Speaker 1: The water moved past in the fading light, its surface
Speaker 1: catching the colors of the sky, orange and pink and
Speaker 1: the first deep blue of evening. The willow trees hung
Speaker 1: their branches over the water, and the branches swayed gently
Speaker 1: in the breeze, touching the surface, sending small ripples outward
Speaker 1: in slow, concentric circles. Her father stood beside her and
Speaker 1: looked at the river. He did not say anything for
Speaker 1: a long time. Then he said, your grandfather used to
Speaker 1: fly kites. Mira looked up at him. She had never
Speaker 1: heard this before. Every spring, her father said he would
Speaker 1: make them himself out of newspaper and sticks, just like
Speaker 1: the ones at the workshop. To day he made them
Speaker 1: for the neighborhood kids, dozens of them, and on Saturday
Speaker 1: mornings the whole street would be flying. He never flew
Speaker 1: one himself. He just liked watching. Mira thought about this,
Speaker 1: about a man she had never met, making kites for
Speaker 1: children he barely knew, standing on a sidewalk and watching
Speaker 1: them fly, and she felt something shift inside her, a small,
Speaker 1: quiet understanding of where her father had learned, this, this
Speaker 1: habit of making things for other people, this quiet, steady
Speaker 1: love that showed itself not in words, but in the
Speaker 1: careful painting of a constellation on a kite, in the
Speaker 1: patient sanding of bamboo, in the three weeks of evening
Speaker 1: work in the garage. Is that why you made mine?
Speaker 1: She asked. Her father nodded partly. They stood by the
Speaker 1: river for a while longer, watching the water move and
Speaker 1: the sky darken. A bat flew overhead, its wings a quick,
Speaker 1: dark flick against the blue. Somewhere down stream, a fish jumped,
Speaker 1: and the splash echoed off the water and the trees
Speaker 1: and the old stone walls of the mill. The first
Speaker 1: star appeared low in the western sky, bright and steady,
Speaker 1: and Mirah looked at it and thought about Orion, about
Speaker 1: the constellation her father had painted on the kite, about
Speaker 1: the three stars of the belt and the fate Nebula
Speaker 1: in the sword, and she knew that soon, very soon,
Speaker 1: the whole sky would be full of stars, the same
Speaker 1: stars that had been there this morning, and would be
Speaker 1: there tomorrow, and would be there for billions of years
Speaker 1: after she was gone. Patient and bright and endlessly quietly beautiful,
Speaker 1: Mira helped her father coil the string and fold the kite.
Speaker 1: He wrapped the frame in a soft cloth and placed
Speaker 1: it in the canvas bag he had brought, and Mira
Speaker 1: carried the bag to the car, holding it carefully, the
Speaker 1: way you hold something precious. Her brother was already in
Speaker 1: the back seat, his orange kite folded beside him, his
Speaker 1: head tilted against the window, his eyes closed on the
Speaker 1: dry home. Mira sat in the front seat and watched
Speaker 1: the sky through the windshield. The sun had set, but
Speaker 1: its light lingered on the horizon, a band of deep
Speaker 1: orange and pink that faded slowly into the blue of evening.
Speaker 1: The first stars were appearing faint and tentative, and Mira
Speaker 1: tried to find Orion, searching the southern sky for the
Speaker 1: three bright stars of the belt, the faint Nebula in
Speaker 1: the sword. She could not see it yet, the twilight
Speaker 1: too bright, but she knew it was there, waiting for
Speaker 1: the darkness to reveal it. That was a good day,
Speaker 1: her mother said from the back seat. Mira nodded. She
Speaker 1: looked at her hands, still feeling the memory of the string,
Speaker 1: the vibration of the kite, the pull of the wind.
Speaker 1: Her fingers were slightly sore, the pads of her index
Speaker 1: finger and the thame red where the string had pressed
Speaker 1: against them, and she looked at the red marks and smiled.
Speaker 1: They were small, quiet proof that she had held something
Speaker 1: and it had pulled back, that she had been connected
Speaker 1: to the sky by a thin line of nylon, and
Speaker 1: that the sky had answered. Her father reached over and
Speaker 1: squeezed her hand once, briefly, the way he did everything,
Speaker 1: and Mira squeezed back, and they drove home through the
Speaker 1: deepening twilight, the car warm and quiet, the sky full
Speaker 1: of stars. That night, after dinner and a bath and
Speaker 1: the long, slow process of getting ready for bed, Mira
Speaker 1: lay in her room and looked at the kite. It
Speaker 1: was leaning against the wall beside her bookshelf, wrapped in
Speaker 1: its cloth, the tail coiled neatly beside it. The room
Speaker 1: was dark except for the night light on her bedside table,
Speaker 1: a small ceramic moon that cast a faint silver glow
Speaker 1: on the wall. The window was open, and the night
Speaker 1: breeze came through, carrying the smell of cut grass and
Speaker 1: lilac and the distant murmur of the river. She reached
Speaker 1: out and touched the kite's frame, running her fingers along
Speaker 1: the bamboo, feeling the smooth surface her father had sanded
Speaker 1: by hand. She could see the paint in the dim light,
Speaker 1: the constellation Orion, the three bright stars of the belt,
Speaker 1: the faint swirl of the nebula, and she traced the
Speaker 1: stars with her finger tip, following the lines her father
Speaker 1: had drawn. The paint was dry and smooth, and beneath
Speaker 1: it she could feel the texture of the fabric, the
Speaker 1: slight roughness where the thread held the seams together. This
Speaker 1: was a thing made by and she thought, this was
Speaker 1: a thing made with care. This was a thing that
Speaker 1: had been held and shaped and painted and tied and
Speaker 1: tested and retested, all for this one day, all for her.
Speaker 1: She thought about the other kites she had seen, the
Speaker 1: dragon with its undulating body, the phoenix with its wings
Speaker 1: of gold, the garbage bag kite that had flown better
Speaker 1: than anything. She thought about the workshop at the mill,
Speaker 1: the man folding newspaper into wings, and she thought about
Speaker 1: Missus Abernathy at the concession stand, and the families on
Speaker 1: the hill, and the boy with the cat kite who
Speaker 1: had spun in circles following its tail. She thought about
Speaker 1: all of them, all the people who had come to
Speaker 1: the park that morning, with their kites and their blankets
Speaker 1: and their coolers, all of them looking up, all of
Speaker 1: them connected by the invisible things, threads that run between
Speaker 1: people when they share something beautiful. She closed her eyes
Speaker 1: and thought about the kite in the air. She thought
Speaker 1: about the string in her hands, the vibration, the pull.
Speaker 1: She thought about the wind, steady and patient, carrying the
Speaker 1: kite upward, carrying it higher than she could reach, higher
Speaker 1: than the trees, higher than the rooftops, into the wide
Speaker 1: open sky where the stars were waiting. She thought about
Speaker 1: her father's hands, steady and careful, painting the constellation on
Speaker 1: the kite, painting the nebula in shades of pink and blue,
Speaker 1: staying up past midnight to make it perfect. She thought
Speaker 1: about the moment when the wind died and the kite fell,
Speaker 1: and then the moment when the wind came back and
Speaker 1: the kite rose again. And she understood what her father
Speaker 1: had meant. It was not over, it just changed. The
Speaker 1: wind always comes back. You have to be patient. The
Speaker 1: night breeze moved through the room, lifting the curtain at
Speaker 1: the corner, and Mirah felt it on her face, soft
Speaker 1: and cool and alive, and she knew that tomorrow the
Speaker 1: kite would be waiting, leaning against the wall, its tail coiled,
Speaker 1: its paint bright, ready to fly again. And she would
Speaker 1: be ready too, standing on the hill with the string
Speaker 1: in her hand, looking up at the sky, feeling the
Speaker 1: wind pull at her, steady and alive, and she would
Speaker 1: hold on and the kite would rise, and the sky
Speaker 1: would answer the way it always did, the way it
Speaker 1: always would, patient and bright and endlessly, quietly beautiful,