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Can't Go Home Again?- by Kathryn Magendie |
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Who was it that said, “You can’t go home again?” I travel back “home” many times in the comfort of my own imagination and memories. Today as I write this, sitting in my sunroom seeing buds on trees winking a hint of spring, I think back to a particular spring when we lived on Alaska Street. We had moved from bitterly cold Ohio back to Louisiana in 1967. The warmth and lushness here felt like an old familiar sweater thrown casually over my shoulders. It was on a clear Saturday morning that my oldest brother, Michael, taught his siblings how to make a kite from scratch. There were five of us: me and TommyDavidMichaelJohnny – said all at once like that with no breath in between. Since I was the only girl I just lumped them all together as one identity – Boys! Michael knew all the secrets of the world. We followed him in silent awe as he explained the art of kite making. He tested the air with a moistened finger and announced that the wind was perfect. I secretly tested the wind by feeling my hair fan out behind me like a flag on a pole. We gathered together and Michael gave orders: first gather branches; they must be very straight, use the oaks in the back of our house and the big pecan tree in the front yard. Michael would not accept anything too thick, too thin, or with leaves and twigs still attached. He inspected each branch with a critical eye. It took us a long time to satisfy him and we ended up in an argument over who had found the best branches. While we hunted and argued Michael would get the funny papers and ball of twine he’d kept hidden under his bed all week. I asked Mom for a bag of fabric scraps we could use as a tail. Then we took our bounty off to nearby LSU parade grounds. Michael set to work cutting a groove in one of the branches. We sat on our heels and looked at our big brother in respect – none of us were allowed to have a knife yet so we were suitably impressed. Once the branches were fitted together, Johnny was allowed to wind the string around a little to secure them. Since I was a girl, as my brothers reminded me quite often, my next job was to select and tie the pieces of cloth together. I liked the colorful pieces like red with white stripes and pink with purple polka dots. The boys made a face at my “girlie” tail, but I knew they’d forget their teasing once it made its colorful statement flapping in the breeze. Tommy and David were the youngest so Michael let them hold the string in place with dirty, chubby fingers as Johnny, tongue stuck out in concentration, tied the knots. Michael then expertly placed the crossed branches on the comics page cut into a V and secured them tight enough to where they would bow inward just slightly keeping the comics taunt. Then he attached the ball of twine and the tail. We were ready to fly. Michael reverently picked up the kite and ran as fast as he could across the grass. The rest of us stood still, holding our breath. Would it fly? Suddenly the wind blew Nancy and Sluggo, Peanuts and his Gang and all our other comic friends up, up into the friendly blue sky. Now, me, Tommy, David, and Johnny could breathe once again while we laughed and ran, screaming Michael’s name – we were ready for our turns to hold the kite and feel its pull. Maybe it would lift us straight up to touch the clouds, right up to heaven. This is where I stop
and my sunroom comes back into focus. I am an adult again and my and my
brothers’ laughter fades away. I stare at my hands, just a little
wrinkled and vieny now; no kite strings have ever again tugged them toward
the sky like they did that free spring day. I guess you can’t go
home again, after all. David is gone. I can’t say TommyMichaelJohnny—
I choke; the spell is broken. I like to think David watches other children
flying kites and smiles down on his remaining loved ones locked in misty
memories. Who was that who said we couldn’t go home again? I just
can’t seem to remember. I guess it doesn’t matter, he was right
all along, wasn’t he? ©
2003 Kathryn Magendie |