Boxes arrive suspended from nylon parachutes sometime overnight as the future participants rest, work, and play. At daybreak, on this grand holiday, the lids are opened, the materials ceremoniously unpacked and gazed upon. Oohs and aahs stir for rolls of emerald silk, cherry dowels, scissors, tape, glue, string, and gleaming white ribbon. Then, slowly, meticulously, using most of the day’s best light, lost in conversation and in silence, humankind over the world constructs kites. Millions upon millions of beautiful, beautiful kites. The anxious look for clues, going outside as time approaches, with their creations in hand, seeing if the wind might nip or if it might at least twirl the sprig of extra string from the bridling point. But, no, they, like the resolved, must wait until sunset, which nears the horizon. And as it approaches—closer, closer—the participants line their lawns and streets and fields, for there is no hiding, no safety to be found in isolated cabins or overgrown jungles. Not in cloud-flirting chateaus either. They all come. They must, and they must come with their kites. As the sun lowers and lowers, and the soft orange shadows slip into paling, dying blues, the participants suit up, draping their kites over their backs. Sliding their arms through and over the wooden rods. Parents instruct their children to follow their lead. The old, those in beds and chairs, ask, plead with awaiting neighbors and tired family members. To help. To, please, help. They all wait because there are no announcements for when the Festival will begin. No songs or speeches. The wind simply comes, its initial breeze loving—comforting, even—sweeping in so softly, so delicately, as if the ceremony is but a dream, and it lifts the yearly chosen. Mostly old and sick, but with surprises. There is a precious moment to say goodbye. To touch. To kiss. To temporarily hold. To say and repeat those three words they all know so well and have silently rehearsed all day—and week and month and year—as the wind comes stronger and stronger again. Those in flight lose their faces as they rise. They become only kites. Dozens, hundreds, thousands, as they lift higher and higher into the clouds. Those below, still wearing their set of emerald, unchosen wings, stay out and wave goodbye even as the moon settles in for a cool night’s stay. They wonder—fear, dream—when it will be their turn to take to the sky. To fly.
Bradley Sides is the author of Those Fantastic Lives: And Other Strange Stories. His recent fiction appears at BULL, Ghost Parachute, and Psychopomp. He is an MFA candidate at Queens University of Charlotte and lives in Florence, Alabama, with his wife. You can find Bradley at bradley-sides.com.
Photo by Mitosh on Unsplash.
Oh, Bradley, this is beautiful! I love that you are sharing your talent with the world and that you are teaching others to do the same. Love you.❤️