How to Fly a Kite
Contrary to popular belief, Death loves life. It is common to see him picking flowers or on a stroll in the park on a nice day. He smiles at others in passing, offering a courteous greeting or a compliment on the weather. He is seldom gloomy, often striking up a conversation with unexpecting strangers as they go about their day. No one would be able to recall his face, nor his name, as he never introduces himself. Everyone has probably encountered him or spoken with him briefly. They might not remember the exact words exchanged, but they’ll remember his cadence and curiosity. He’s a funny one, Death; He’s got a way of making one smile.
One day, while on an early morning walk, Death picked a couple of chrysanthemums that grew along the park trail, wrapping them in the day’s newspaper that he had read earlier that morning. It was a bright, blue day with a cool breeze and the sun gleaming cheerfully through the treetops. Death, satisfied with his pick, continued walking along the paved trail, bidding passers-by a “Good morning,” with a smile.
He made his way up to a hill where a large oak tree grew, providing shade for the park bench underneath it, the wind making the leaves in it shudder. There a young man sat, no older than 20, feeding the pigeons a bag of seeds. Upon hearing Death’s footsteps, the man looked up and scooted to the far side of the bench. Death thanked him and set his flowers down between them, watching as the pigeons took little offense to his intrusion. The old wood of the bench creaked slightly as he rested on it. The flowers sat idly between the two while the two men caught the harsher elements of the cool wind. The two sat in silence for a couple of minutes, taking in the view with the young man throwing seeds every so often for the birds. The hill was not on a steep incline but, from where they sat, they could see a clearing ahead of them. Near the bottom of the hill, a father and child were flying a kite.
“Beautiful day we’re having,” Death started, glancing at the man briefly before looking back in front of him. The younger, overdressed gentleman was out of place with his styled hair barely swaying in the wind, and his gray button-up and ironed slacks. His dress shoes, shiny and new, stood out on the worn concrete. The pigeons challenged the reflection of themselves in them.
Death watched the kite soar high above the father and son while the bright sun overhead cast a jarring shadow on the vibrant green grass. From where he was, the duo and kite looked the same size, the birds in the sky a close second. The young stranger hardly noticed them.
“Yeah, nice weather,” the man agreed with a tight smile, eyes fixated on the ground. They sat in silence for a while before he continued. “I don’t come here often, but I’m starting to think I should.” He threw another handful of seeds. Death watched as the seeds carried themselves a short distance before dropping onto the ground like flies, quickly disappearing as soon as the birds pecked relentlessly at them. His eyes cast back to the family ahead. The father cast the kite out further and his child, squinting up to look at it, jumped up. He could faintly hear the excited squeals, muffled by the sound of the blowing treetops.
“It’s a nice park. This is my favorite place to think,” Death responded. He watched as the pigeons crowded around them, pecking feverishly at the ground, and wondered if they ever felt full.
“Yeah? Anyone ever taken this spot before you?”
“Sometimes, but then I start talking until they leave.” The two chuckled.
“Was that my cue?” The man glanced at him with a grin. Death noticed the fine lines around his eyes. He had old eyes for a young man. Death laughed and shook his head.
“I’m usually a lot more subtle than that,” He joked. “What brings you here? You know, besides stealing my spot.” Death said it playfully but noticed that the man paused for a beat. The stranger’s smile had faltered and no longer reached his eyes. Death looked back ahead, listening as the bag of seeds rustled again and the pigeons nipped at the ground. The father had handed the rod to the child and they both held it, watching as it flew steadily.
“Found your spot on accident; Just needed to get out I guess. Feel like I never really have time to sit and think about things,” the man responded, pausing again before his next sentence as though considering his words. Death nodded, encouraging him to continue. “I dunno, it’s just- no one ever stops to smell the roses anymore.” The man threw more seeds. He turned his head to look at Death, spotting the bunch of chrysanthemums between them.
“Not roses, but these are nice,” Death shrugged. The man said nothing, leaning over in a hunch to focus on the ground rather than the pigeons. Death watched as the father praised the child who was now steering the kite confidently as his father’s hands guided him. Upon hearing the faint cheering, the young guy looked up towards the two. For a moment, they all watched the kite fly.
“Me and my dad used to do that. We didn’t do a lot of things together, but I remember this one time we went out on this really windy day and flew this makeshift kite he made out of tape and an old shirt,” the man recalled, more objectively than emotionally.
“Always good to have nice memories,” Death replied. The man shrugged, throwing another handful of seeds.
“He was kind of an asshole, to be honest,” he confessed. “He never really did much of anything except teach me how to fly a kite or how to use a wall anchor.”
“Ah yes, the two most important life skills a man should know.”
“The wall anchor one was useful. But it wasn’t like how to shave, or how to ask a girl out, or how to handle things like a man.”
“Like a man?”
“Y’know, tough. Manly. How to be strong for others when they need you to be.”
“Stronger than a wall anchor?”
“Sturdy, dependable, useful- like a wall anchor.”
“I feel like we aren’t talking about wall anchors.” Death turned to face him. “What about the other thing he taught you?” Death asked it with a sense of curiosity that caught the man off guard.
“The other thing? Y’mean how to fly a kite?” The man asked, searching to find something that indicated that Death was joking. When he found no sign of mockery, he continued. “Learning to fly a kite was a waste of time,” he said, turning back to avoid the other man’s gaze. He threw a couple more seeds to the audience of pigeons.
Death looked towards the family duo again. The father, by this time, was explaining something to his son, demonstrating how to move and steer to maintain the kite’s momentum.
“What did he teach you about how to fly a kite,” Death repeated, picking up his flower bunch and examining them with little interest. He plucked off the wilted leaves.
“Not much of a lesson,” the man continued, bemused. The young stranger looked at the father and his child. He tilted his head toward them. “He taught me how to do that. Well, kinda. He taught me how to make a kite first, even if he barely knew how to do it himself. Then he taught me how to get it off the ground and keep it off the ground.” They watched as the father slowly let go of the handle so that the child could do it on his own. They both cheered, the father waving his fists in the air and expressing excitement for the both of them.
“That’s it?” Death asked. He turned to look at the man, noting that the youth was watching the kite intensely. It flew steadily as the boy confidently cast it out further.
“No. He let me hold onto the kite and fly it myself. It was a real windy day and it was a shitty makeshift kite, so the line broke and the thing just flew off, y’know?” he recalled.
“Was he mad?”
“Nah, he just told me to let it go. Told me it would find its way,” the man said, ridiculing his father’s words with a scoff. “I was a kid. I imagined that the wind carried it across the world, but it probably landed in someone’s backyard and into the trash.”
“It was a good lesson.”
“I guess.”
“Does your dad remember it?”
“He’s dead”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Shouldn’t be. Not like you killed him.” The man chuckled to himself and Death shifted in his seat. The wooden bench creaked beneath him, rickety and dry. “He passed away recently. Just up and croaked. Heart attack, they said. It got me thinking, ‘Life’s short. Death’s gonna come up to all of us eventually, some sooner than others, and we should just be happy,’ y’know? Just learn to finally-”
“Let go,” It echoes as a request. At the same time, the child pulled on the line of his kite and Death and the young man watched as the line broke and slipped out of the child’s small hands. It flew upwards, far over their heads, doing somersaults in the sky like a trained pilot. The father watched as his son tried hopelessly to jump for it, the youth’s arms extending over his head as he called for the kite like it would return at his beckoning. Instead of reaching for it in futile attempts, the father opted to put a comforting hand on his son’s back. They watched, together, as it flew off further than they could reach. It became smaller and smaller until it was gone. The sky seemed a little clearer.
Death stood up rapidly, stretching his arms and cracking his neck. His movement was so abrupt it scared the pigeons and caused the man to drop his bag, spilling the remainder of the seeds. The man cursed quietly and watched as some pigeons flew off while the others, falling backward initially from the scare, came back to peck at the ground.
“I appreciate the company,” Death stated, stretching his old back like a cat. “I’m sorry for your loss. For your kite, I mean. You know, since your dad was an asshole.” The younger man chuckled but, before he could respond, Death left in long strides. The man watched as he left and, once he disappeared, turned to find that the child and father, too, had left. Next to him, a bunch of chrysanthemums laid on the bench, fully bloomed.
Author Bio
Natalie Vargas is a Filipino-American writer born in the suburbs of southern California, spending most of her time as a full-time student studying, working, and writing. As an English major at CSU Fullerton, Natalie considers literature to be a great way of understanding the world around her—second, only, to exploring it. She plans to teach others the same in the future as an educator.