Tanya's
Kite
A
Tribute by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com
Art
by Brian J. Smith
Springtime
brings renewal. The countryside thaws, flowers and trees bud, and
bitter cold yields to the warm gusts of a new summer in that inexorable
reaffirmation of life. This is the time, when conditions are just
right, for flying a kite.
Many springtimes ago my little sister, Tanya, saved her allowance
and bought a kit for building one of these aeronautical wonders.
Only about eight or nine at the time, she methodically assembled
it without assistance or advice, then set it aside, anxiously monitoring
the weather, waiting for the perfect day.
It arrived one afternoon when a patch of rain clouds drifted beyond
the horizon to reveal azure sky, sunshine bathing our neighborhood
in its warm glow, a steady breeze stirring from the south.
Tanya gathered every spare roll of string and twine she could find,
then carried her prized pink diamond-flyer out to the driveway and
launched it high. Navigating between tree-tops, avoiding the hazards
of power lines and utility poles, she carefully played out the line,
hoping to float hers higher and farther than any kite had flown
before. She watched proudly as it continued to lift effortlessly
into the air, her ersatz explorer tugging gently at its reins, seeking
the freedom to sail where it may.
I loitered nearby, certainly too old for such childish games, but
ready to help her tie another roll when the first played out. Of
course I lingered for a while in case she might succeed in needing
a third.
And still the kite climbed. By the time she added a fourth roll,
an audience of neighborhood kids had started to gather, some contributing
more string to the cause, all applauding Tanya's remarkable feat.
Mom came out to assess the commotion, then pulled me aside and quietly
cautioned that soon the stress would be too much, that mere string
would surely break and leave Tanya heartbroken. Still, to our little
aeronaut, testing the limits of sky had proven more important than
any certainty of retrieval.
I can't say how many rolls were pressed into service that day, but
I do recall that kite fading so far into the distance that latecomers
would need binoculars to confirm what we already knew.
One boy set out on his bicycle, pedaling furiously northward, returning
later to confirm that Tanya's kite hovered in sight of the big cemetery
with manicured lawns and a chapel and turtle pond, where geese gather
to stand sentry over loved ones lost.
Eventually the sky darkened, the audience drifting away for suppers
and television and bedtimes. It took quite a while, but Tanya, determined
to bring the explorer home, managed to wind all that string and
retrieve her great pink kite, remarkably intact and unscarred. If
only that delicate assemblage of paper and wood and torn rags could
share its glory, Tanya's would boast one of the finest kite tales
ever told.
I don't know what happened to that kite. Our time with such ephemeral
toys is inevitably short. Many are put away and forgotten, others
broken or lost to those hazards that lurk at the fringes of everyday
life. A few even manage to break free, never to be seen again, hopefully
continuing their journeys on their own terms, in their own time.
In the coming years we learned to mark the advent of spring with
Tanya's launch of each new kite. Sunny days offering brisk breezes
would surely find her clutching a roll of twine, eyes to the distance,
a rag-tailed flyer dancing against that vivid backdrop of blue.
But even little girls grow up, and Tanya started having to fit her
picnics and campouts and kite-flying jaunts between the demands
of a busy career.
We especially cherished those rare trips to visit our parents at
their home on a lake in the mountains. We'd go boating with Dad,
and she'd lean out the bow, eyes closed, her arms catching the wind.
We'd feed geese with Mom, and Tanya would gaze wistfully as eventually,
inevitably, they would fly off to disappear against the blinding
blue sky.
And she would cajole me into hiking with her to the natural bridge,
climbing ridges until we towered over the valley, then pausing to
watch cascading waterfalls crash into stair-step pools below. She
always stood at the precipice and tilted her face up to the sun,
and at those moments I knew that if I could give my sister anything
in the world, it would be a magnificent pair of wings.
But like all seasons, springtimes must pass, and when Tanya was
twenty-eight years old one of those hazards lurking at the edges
of everyday life proved too much. The sun had set on a bitter winter
day, and in the darkness her car skidded across a patch of black
ice.
The string broke that night, and I lost my little sister, the beautiful
young woman who loved animals and people, the little girl who never
gave up, the magically buoyant soul who always found her wind.
Hundreds attended her funeral, a tribute from those lucky enough
to have known and loved her. I don't think that warm spring day
when she'd decided to fly her pretty pink kite was mentioned; so
much had happened in the years since, too many poignant moments
to recall.
She was buried there in the cemetery with the manicured lawns, close
to the chapel and turtle pond, where geese gather to stand sentry
over loved ones lost.
Some say death is a part of living, not a moment to fear. Hopes
and dreams, no matter how big or small, give us the impetus to reach.
There will always be risks and hazards inherent in all we try to
achieve, in every place we venture, whenever we dare to share, and
in those times we test the boundaries to see, if only for that moment,
how it feels to soar. I'm proud that my sister always lived on her
own terms, never afraid to play out a little more string, eternally
reaching for the sky.
I miss you, Tanya, and that never changes as the years breeze ever
faster by, even as the springtimes come and go in that inexorable
reaffirmation of life. Your only tethers to this world now are the
memories twined among the people whose hearts you touched, each
contributing another roll.
I'll never let go of my end, so you fly as high and as far as you
ever imagined. Bathe the world in your sunshine, and my love will
be your wind.
* * *
©
2006 The Fresh Ink Group, LLC, All Rights Reserved.
Versions
of "Tanya's Kite" have appeared in numerous magazines
and Chicken Soup for the Nature Lover's Soul. Stephen
Geez's novel Dance
of the Lights is another heartfelt tribute to his sister.
Share
your comments about these, or tell us your own brief story at
info@StephenGeez.com.
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