A Wind of Memories

A short story about a man dealing with loss

A Wind of Memories

The sound of the table saw roared in his ears as he ran the pine over it. He shaved his half inch off, then he shaved off another half inch. He tossed the board aside and absently reached for his coffee. Ignoring the light film of saw dust, he swallowed and examined the two half inch pieces of wood. A drop of sweat fell from his gray, balding head. His fingers lightly rubbed the grain as he looked through the sticks.
He inhaled deeply through this nose and looked around the garage. His brain barely registered the smell of pine dust. He turned the saw on, and began to shave this sticks. His hands didn't tremble with the age his face showed. They were like rocks. They were steady. He'd always had strong hands.
* * *
They held hands as they walked. The July sun filtered through the trees and the scent of pine was everywhere. The fragrance in the air was so sweet, you could taste it. They knew the trail well. Beach Mountain held many memories for them. Memories that made them smile. They had many firsts here. First kiss was up the trail and around the bend. She must have thought that he was nuts when he first suggested going to the mountain on their first date. But after he suggested it, he caught her looking at him and smiling.
She let him kiss her on the mountain, and she kissed him back. Something touched him. Something about her caressed a tender spot inside of him.
* * *
He opened the shop door, carrying his six sticks. He dumped out the dust ladened, cold coffee. He looked at the sky. There was no denying it, the day was going to be hot. It was only ten minutes past seven, but the July sun had everything heated to eighty-two degrees. He absently waved away a black fly and went to his mail box. He took the newspaper out, and walked across the yard to his house.
Sniffing lightly, he tossed the sticks on his kitchen table, and toyed with reading the paper.
He smiled. Procrastination. The paper was nothing more than a way of putting off what he had to do, like he did every year.
"Damn," he muttered as he poured more coffee into his mug.
He rummaged through a kitchen drawer and pulled out an old Buck Knife, a spool of string and tube of fast drying epoxy. He sat down in a chair at the table and inspected the sticks, one more time. Seeming satisfied, he opened the knife and began to notch the end of the sticks. The wrinkles around his eyes became more prominent as he worked. He probably should have been wearing glasses, but in the heat, he would have just sweated on them. He knew that he would have had to take them off anyway. It was better to leave them off.
His fingers handled the knife like it was an old friend. Why not? They had been performing this ritual for years. This wasn't the first time for either one of them. When the sticks were notched, he cut off some string and grabbed the epoxy.
* * *
She laughed as he tried to kill the black fly. He didn't mind, she had a beautiful laugh.
He had proposed to her on the mountain. She had said yes, and then they made love for the first time, well hidden, off the trail.
The trees gave way for a view that caught their hearts every time. Standing on the side of the mountain, they overlooked a lake with another mountain directly across from the them. It was a breathtaking display. Small triangular dots that could only be sail boats were just visible on the blue surface of the lake.
He looked at her and winked. She smiled at him.
"Right here?" She asked.
He attached the string to the bridle of the kite.
"Why not?"
* * *
His hands worked the kite covering in the sewing machine. This was always the hardest part for him. Even after performing this task over the years, he always seemed to have the difficult time setting the sewing machine up and actually getting it to do its thing to his satisfaction. He learned over the years to start with a practice piece of material until he was comfortable using the machine. Then he would use the actual kite covering. When the initial awkwardness passed, he managed to maneuver the covering through the path of the needle.
The covering was cotton. He preferred it over other material. Something in his mind led him to believe that cotton was a pure fabric. He also considered a silk a pure fabric, but, there was something haughty about silk. Cotton was an every person fabric.
* * *
The wind blew his hair in every direction. She smiled as she pointed out his very thinning hair supply was being carried away in the wind.
He shook his head and checked the kite's string and tail. Every now and then he watched her. The wind pushed her cotton blouse and made it cling to her body in very attractive ways. He loved the fact that after three years of marriage, she still touched a part of him that only she could reach.
She caught him looking at her and lightly bit her bottom lip. He winked and stood. Small white caps could be seen on the water below. The kite in his hands came alive as the wind teased it, coaxed it. He let go of the kite and let some string out. The kite didn't wait and took off.
* * *
He stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. The line dried towel felt nice and rough on his skin. He didn't look in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, and was careful not to look in his eyes as he combed his hair. He put on blue jeans, socks and black t-shirt. He passed over his sneakers and chose hiking boots. He gingerly picked up the three kites and walked outside.
The heat clung to him. His body began to sweat immediately. His skin ached for some kind of breeze, but there was nothing. The still, hot air refused any relief.
It didn't matter. He knew there'd be a wind where he was going.
He tossed the kites into the back of his Bronco and got inside. He made sure that the radio was off and the air conditioner was on. He took a deep breath and pulled out of his driveway.
* * *
The kite's tail danced with the wind and the kite itself soared. He held onto the line and could feel the air pressure. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he was going to be able to pull the kite in without snapping the line. It didn't really matter, he could always make another one. The thrill of kite flying had always been with him since he was a kid--not just flying them, but building them. Flying was only part of the experience. You had to build them to really feel like you've conquered the wind.
He knew that she was watching him. He liked it. The first time he took her kite flying, in the park, she thought the whole idea was childish. But together, they built the kite and it became important to her to see if what she helped build would actually fly. That afternoon, she became hooked on kites. She couldn't help it, exhilaration flowed from the kite to her.
The kite twisted and began to dive. The string went slack.
"Damn it," he muttered.
"What?" she asked.
"It's in a dive."
The the wind was caught in the kite, once again, and it began to climb.
"Okay," she said, "my turn."
* * *
He drove to a sandwich shop and stepped inside.
The man behind the counter looked at him and nodded. His eyes quickly darted to the calendar on the wall.
"Ham and cheese sub?" he asked.
"Yeah."
He stood by a window and watched the traffic as his sandwich was being prepared. He pretended not to notice that every eye in the shop was on him. He didn't care.
A few minutes later, he was in his car driving east. He crossed a bridge and saw the sign announcing that he was on Mount Desert Island. Shortly, he saw the sign for Beach Mountain. The drive to the mountain was simple He'd been there hundreds of times. Eventually, the road came to a parking area. He sat in the car and ate his sandwich. He wiped his mouth and stepped out. There was a breeze here. He knew there would be. He grabbed the kites and walked onto the mountain's trail.
* * *
She flew the kite like a master.
She released all the line. She enjoyed doing that. Knowing that the kite was being held by a small knot where the string was tied to the spool excited her. If the knot slipped then the kite would be free. For her, there was something romantic in that notion.
His attention was drawn to an eagle. It soared between the two mountains close to the water, quite probably looking for lunch.
He didn't see her lose her footing.
* * *
The mountain's beauty was wasted on him. He only came to the mountain once a year, now. Any more than that would kill him. The trees gave way to a view that once made him smile. The mountain on the other side and the lake down below, once friends, now went unnoticed.
He set the kites on the ground and carefully strung them together.
* * *
"No!" he screamed and reached for her.
The kite, released from her grip, dived unnoticed to the lake.
He caught her wrist and was pulled to the ground. As he held onto her wrist, she never said a word. She looked into his eyes. He strained to pull her up. He wasn't going to let her go. He'd always had strong hands...
* * *
The kites caught the wind and he allowed them to take off one at a tie. They were separated by five feet of string. In a single file, they flew over the lake. He let out the line quickly, but not so quickly that they would go into a dive. It didn't take long for all the string to be released and for the kites to be held by one small knot.
* * *
His hands were strong, but he was still losing his grip. The sweat from their hands fought them. He inhaled and pulled...he could feel something pop in his shoulder.
* * *
He tied the string to a tree and sat down. He watched the kites dance with the wind.
Finally, he took out his Buck Knife and opened it.
* * *
He screamed at the pain in his shoulder.
"Please, God, please. Don't do this, please don't do this."
He could hear her breathing, but she said nothing. She continued to look at him.
Finally, she said, "I love you."
* * *
He cut the string.
* * *
Her hand slipped from his.
* * *
As the kites soared for a moment and then dived, he whispered, "I love you." And he walked down the trail.

Author's Note

I've attended too many writing seminars or classes where every writer thought they were God's gift to the written word. They would get defensive and/or angry. How dare we have an opinion on their writing that does not gibe with the "wonderfullness" that they know it to be. We must be just hateful bastards.

I don't have time to waste on prima donnas (or being a prima donna, for that matter).

If you read it--tell me what you think.

I'm a simple guy,