It would be different, watching the Kite Festival alone.
Last year, she’d danced on the sand with her friends from Dickenson. They were all incoming freshman, not yet too sophisticated to gallop about in mad waltzes to The 1812 Overture while the fireworks spiraled color and fire into the sky, and the kites tugged and swooped in a synchronized frenzy.
Last night Baz had phoned on his break, hoping for a reprise of last year with the picnic basket, blanket, plastic wineglasses and general silliness they had all enjoyed, but Cee hadn’t bothered turning him down; she’d just let the phone ring when the Caller ID flashed his name and number. It seemed too much to explain if she said no, and she couldn’t face ‘yes’ yet, not last night.
But it was windy this morning, and the wind had whistled through her sleep and tumbled her out of bed. She’d been halfway down the ladder from the loft before she’d realized she was wearing only one earring. A hasty search through the bedclothes left her scowling and determined next time to not stay up so late, to find some kind of ritual, some kind of routine for closing out the day, for winding down, for closing her eyes on the darkness. She couldn’t afford this disorder, this chaos. She had to pull herself together.
Cee listened to the wind tearing at the trees as she put the eye drops in; one for the left, two for the right. They stung, as usual, and it depressed her how much more the tiny burden of stinging eyes added to her day. Spring was an awakening, a joyous celebration, a preparation for the glories of summertime, but she felt sapless and wizened and dead.
Sitting at the light she asked herself, Why are you doing this? Why even go?
But she’d promised herself. She was going to do everything, see everything, take in as much as she could before the inevitable dimness, before the world turned to twilight. It seemed braver, somehow, if she went alone.
“Stargardt’s Disease,” her mother had intoned sepulchrally, whispering on the telephone to the pastor’s wife the day they had heard. “It’s hereditary, a recessive macular degeneration,” she’d continued, unable to resist displaying her word-for-word memory of the ophthalmologist’s diagnosis before breaking down completely. “How could we have known this would happen? It’s all my fault!”
Somehow her mother could claim responsibility – and thus the central role – in any and all crises. She’d cried for a full forty minutes – full-blown noisy, gulping sobs – when Cee had asked her father to rent her the little walkup by the marina that he’d just refurbished. The single, high ceilinged room with the loft bed, combined kitchen and dining room, cozy living room and wraparound porch was sunny, quiet, and five miles, strong oak door and a chrome-plated, steel-ball padlock away from her mother.
“You can’t move out, Cecil, you’re going blind,” her mother had blurted, then pressed shaking, tragic fingers against her lips.
“Mattie, please,” Dad had sighed.
“I’m not blind yet,” Cecil had argued, summoning her spirit from the basement before it was extinguished in yet another flood of dank, motherly tears. “Dr. Hoenig said she didn’t know how long I’d have… I just want to do normal things until… until I can’t.”
She’d signed up for art classes at UCSD, worked hard on depth and perception, shading and angles. With her store discount, she ate daily parfaits at the First Street Café, examining them minutely to see the play of color and light between the fresh, glistening fruit, yogurt and granola. Every morning she watched the layers of her lattés settle, and she watched as the sun dove headlong into the sea each night. She avoided telling anyone, seeing anyone, and instead spent her time recording the fading world…
–Which was just as bloody stupid and overdramatic as her mother’s way of dealing with things.
For goodness sakes, Cecil. You’re not blind yet.
The parking lot was crowded. Most people just parked at the beach, but Cee preferred to park at the mall, then walk the six blocks down the hill to the marina, cross the street and hit the sand. As the sun warmed her skin, she smelled fish frying, and wrinkled her nose, imagining thick slabs of crisped potatoes drenched in salt and vinegar. The gulls were cursing gutturally, shrieking over scraps and riding the currents. Salsa music boomed from the windows of a jeep as it passed. Right now, everything seemed good to smell, good to taste, good to touch. Cee felt a little pang as she remembered how she’d blown off Baz. He would have bought a basket from the vendor on the corner, and he would have let her eat almost all the chips. She really should call him and talk to him, soon. Baz had a way of eeling in next to her when she had a problem, digging in with his shoulder, and suddenly taking more than half the load. Cee blinked her stinging eyes rapidly and pushed up her sunglasses. She’d call Baz, tonight, for sure. Maybe it was time.
Just as she hit the beach, the traditional ‘Octopile’ began. At a shout from a faraway speaker, thousands of Octopi and jellyfish kites arose from the sand, followed by the requisite number of tropical fish, box kites, geckos, and the odd penguin. Looking up, it was all brightly colored nylon and graceful flight; the kites rippled aloft on wings of graceful beauty. Down below, it was a scene of controlled chaos as excitable kite enthusiasts ran about in short bursts, arms outstretched, urging their kites to defy gravity and rise.
Cee watched as a pair of runners collided, tangled their ropes, and fell headlong. She sucked in a breath, then as they sat up, laughing, she found herself slowly smiling, shaking her head at the absurdity. The flyers untangled themselves and dusted off, talking animatedly, waving their arms and stopping to point at the kites of more successful enthusiasts. Finally, one at a time, they tossed up their fragile crafts of bright fabric and balsa wood, and guided them into the current. After awhile, their kites were indistinguishable from the hundreds dotting the sky.
It was light was making her eyes water, Cecil knew. It was only the light, and not the thought of defying the odds and achieving flight, falling, rising, and trying again.
I love kites. Ascent/Assent was inspired by more than this picture snapped by Flickr photographer Ffeeddee. The Flictionators may or may not be the usual suspects: The Gurrier, Ms. Teaandcakes, Elimare, Chris, Aquafortis, Valshamerlyn, and Miss Mari.
Every year we’ve amended, tossed in various potions and promises in the hopes that we are continuing the process of breaking down adobe clay into reasonable soil. Last year’s backbreaking 15 sq. yards of composting tree leaves finally did the trick. That, and the water-absorbing polymer, the late rains, the freeze, perhaps — everything rolled into one and the Moon being in the 9th House have created the kind of dirt that you step into… and sink.