Kite Day

Photo by Julia D'June

The Campfire summer group is having a July kite making and flying contest and Miranda is confident she'll build the best kite on the planet! 'On the planet I tell you! It's gonna soar miles high,' she grins up into her dad's listening face. 'Higher than anyone ever thought possible!' For a home-built second grader's kite. 'So high it will be a speck, a dot in the sky. Airplanes will have to divert around my amazing high flyer.'

'It will be the newest prototype for kite flight technology.' Her dad joins in on the enthusiasm. Sure, it could happen. Anything is possible, or so Miranda's been told.

Hand sketched plans lay out on the kitchen table over the strewn about supplies, Miranda prattles in her excitement to her mother, who stands near the sink, distracted and distant. Her mom gives every appearance that Miranda is the focus of her attention but Miranda knows better, her mom’s glazed stare seldom has anything to do her. She is practically invisible to her mom. Her dad sees it too, and steadfast as he is able, tries his darndest to help Miranda feel seen and encouraged.

The side door swings open with a flourish letting in some much-needed fresh air, 'here you go kiddo!' Her dad hands her a newly fashioned wooden crank reel and spool. Just the ticket, the icing on first prize Miranda needs.

Her dad has an assortment of fancy tools in the garage and stacks of wood for just such an occasion. The kite reel is all wood, no screws just pegs and post style carpentry, with diamond cutout shapes on the palm sized handle for extra grip. 'I'll put a coat of stain on it after tomorrow's kite day.' The pride of sharing twinkles between them.

Her dad's Mercury Comet flies down the road towards Camp Ripley parade grounds just north of town, her dad lightly humming along to the radio. He's a quiet man, says a lot without words, expression mostly, the way he holds his hand always a tell for what's on his mind. The one ring finger tap, deep in thought about something that's got his goat. Three fingers drumming on the arm of the chair, all is well in the world from his outlook.

Miranda gleefully signs the welcome roster, brimming over with excitement, and they take their designated place on the field. Her dad is there mostly as a presence for encouragement; the kite operations is all up to Miranda. There's only a slight breeze which means there is a bit of running around happening by the participants to coax their kites to take flight. Back and forth. Arms stretched high, tug down low. 'Fly! Come on. UP!'

There are a few kites getting aloft, then a few more. But Miranda's kite refuses, utterly refuses to leave the ground. The tail's too heavy, she thinks. Adjustments made. Run faster, she thinks. That's the trick. But nothing. Swirl. Swish. Inches off the ground then nose down. Her kite refusing to claim its first-place title.

Heavy and unbalanced her pride gives up quicker than her dad would have liked. He wants to see her succeed. First prize is great and all, but any amount of flight is praiseworthy, he could work with that. He wishes for that. There were too many disappointments as of late and a small win would be nice. But this is not that win.

Miranda slunks off the field, shoulders askew, defeated, kite dragging behind her cartwheeling over the ground and marring its artwork with bright green streaks on the long trek to the car. She crawls in the front seat sinking onto the floorboard, her bitter tasting tears of disappointment soak the seat.

Her dad closes the passenger door with a ginger touch, picks up the kite and all its entrails for storage in the trunk. Settling in behind the wheel he pats Miranda's shoulder hoping to ease her tears and drives home.

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