Flown

By Pamela Love

After my daughter and her husband’s car accident, it was just Carter and me. Then, three years later to the day that I had buried his parents, I laid six-year-old Carter beside them.

Leukemia.

Most of the people at the funeral were my grandson’s friends. A few had tears running down their cheeks as they hugged their parents, many of whom were biting their lips or sniffing to hold back their own. But others were looking around with frank curiosity as if this was the first cemetery they had ever seen. I didn’t mind. Carter had done the same thing when I’d taken him to see where his parents were buried.

Once the minister spoke the final graveside words, I held up a hand and made the announcement I’d carefully planned with the help of Reverend Hahn, who was also the mother of my grandson’s best friend. “Carter wanted us to do something special after this.”

I beckoned them to follow me to my car and opened the trunk. Sad as I was, I couldn’t help smiling at the “oohs” and “ahs” as I handed each child a kite.

Carter loved kites, and March is dependably windy here in Michigan. The park was right across the street from the cemetery, and the wide-eyed kindergartners and their understanding moms and dads filed across the crosswalk.

Liam Hahn, my grandson’s best friend, trotted next to me. “Can we keep the kites, Mrs. Worthington?”

I nodded. “Absolutely.” I’d bought them online, except for the red one tucked under my arm—it was Carter’s. I couldn’t bear to let anyone else fly it.

Minutes later, multicolored kites bounced on the breeze, decorating the gray sky. Carter had said he wanted his friends and me to have fun. They certainly were. Several people held up their phones to film their children running and giggling. Yes, remember every moment of joy, people.

All too soon, everyone said their reluctant “goodbyes” and prompted “thank yous” and headed back to the church’s parking lot. At last, I stood alone, my hat jammed down over my graying hair, leaving my split ends vibrating in the stiff breeze.

Carter’s final request was for me to release his kite so he could fly it in Heaven. “And I’ll have wings so I can fly right next to it. Won’t that be cool, Grandma?”

“Of course,” I said.

So, I took a deep breath and tried, but my fingers would not loosen their grip. The kite string struggled against my clenched fist, stretched taut to the lone red diamond in the sky.

The wind kicked up. As I shivered, I noticed the sun beginning to set. It was time to go home.

Hand over hand, I drew the kite down, whispering, “Maybe tomorrow, little guy.” Although it did look like it was going to rain, so maybe not.

About halfway down, the kite began to shimmer. I figured it was some weird reflection or condensation. But when I finally held it again, I gasped. No longer an inexpensive piece of scarlet polyester, Carter’s toy now shone silvery-white. Like his new wings, maybe?

Weeping, I folded my hands to clasp the string between them. After a brief, silent prayer, I let Carter take his beloved kite back.

Three seconds later the sky was empty. Even the clouds were gone.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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