KITE And Other Short Stories of New Mexico

By David Kyea

What happens to kites when the children that played with them no longer care? What happens when the spirit that resides in an animal encounters the kindred spirit that lives in some people? And what happens when a difficult decision has to be made? What is it about chokecherry wine, a simple birdfeeder or a red petunia and the old woman who can no longer care for it that they are gathered together in this volume? How does a bully fare when he encounters a mild mannered school teacher? Everyday people walk these pages. Sometimes we meet them through extreme circumstances. At other times it is something as simple as a day's work. Still others bring us to the realization that things just might not be what they seemed. The author has drawn on a rich life in New Mexico and the people he knows so well to set the stage. These stories can be enjoyed by anyone from Junior High to ninety who is interested in New Mexico and recognizes that some things just can't be or don't need to be explained.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098308575

Book preview

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

© 2020 David Kyea

No part of this publication may be translated, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, in whole or in part without prior written permission from the author.

All names and situations represented in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people or real situations is unintentional and coincidental.

KITE

And Other Short Stories of New Mexico

Copyright © 2020 by David Kyea. All rights Reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-09830-856-8 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-09830-857-5 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

DEDICATION

I dedicate this,

my first published book, to my wife, Lani.

Without her sincere belief in me and my writing, this volume would not exist.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

How to begin? I want… No.

I need to thank all those who have shared their lives with Lani and me over the past nearly fifty years. Your presence, no matter how brief or enduring, and the wonderful place in which we live have been the inspiration for these stories. A listing of each of you would, necessarily, fill volumes. Please accept this small token of my esteem for how much you have meant to me.

For those of you have chosen this book to read, I am grateful. I only hope you will not be disappointed.

Contents

KITE

RED PETUNIA

CHOKECHERRY WINE

THE COYOTE

VOICEMAIL

TÍO SOLOMON

THE GRAY MARE

VACUUM CLEANER

BIRDFEEDER

THE BLACK HEIFER

PEACHES

KNOCK

ENDORSEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

KITE

I picked my way cautiously

across the cattleguard, balancing an over-filled metal trash can in one hand… seeking balance with the other. Stepping gingerly from rail to rail. I’ve been that way, although it is getting worse, since I broke my leg. It has held for fourteen years, a six- inch plate, seven screws and of course, arthritis. I’m not a kid, at least not in body… and sadly, not always in spirit.

Wind had been having her way with us all day. Gusting fitfully. Blowing continuously. By the time I crossed the cattleguard she had begun to tire. Sun was preparing his evening display just above the hills. He would be out of sight in a hand’s breadth.

I made it! Thank you for the little things. Hoisting the dumpster lid, I tipped the can to dump the load and stopped…. Color? Blues and greens, splashes of yellow and red. In our dumpster? I didn’t put that in there. What the heck is it?

I set the un-dumped can on the ground and reached into the bin. Fabric. Thin, some type of synthetic. A plastic frame. I lifted gently and it came to light in my hand. A kite! With a veeerrry long tail. String still attached to one of those over-complicated plastic winders. The only good they had ever been for me was to make knots in the string. This one was no exception.

Ahhhhh, Fred must have thrown it in there.

Sad. Kites are not meant to be thrown in the trash… at least not until they are broken beyond repair. I turned it over. A lizard? A gecko. Eyes bright. He grinned. Joyful at having been saved. Happy for Sun’s touch on his face. Wind rustled the kite’s tail, teasing us with potential.

I thought of our son William. How many years? It doesn’t matter. Gone.

William and I had liked kites. Big ones, not so big ones, tiny kites, store bought, hand-made… we’d flown them all. Wind had been our playmate. She had joined in eagerly. Sometimes too eagerly. But when she played by the rules… it was magnificent.

After William died, I gave our kites away to children that came to visit. They had grinned at the promise of… kites. I wondered, for the first time in years, if any of those I had given away still flew.

Laying this kite on the ground next to the dumpster, where Wind would not be able to snatch it from me, I untangled the tail, unwound as much string as I could and rewound it smooth.

Standing, with the kite in hand, I glanced up. Moon, in the crystal-blue late afternoon sky, looked brightly down on us through a thin veil of silver-wisp clouds. Wind tugged gently at the kite.

Let’s play, Wind whispered.

The kite responded to Wind’s caress. He fluttered with anticipation and the memory of what he had been created for.

To be KITE.

KITE, restless, tugged insistently against the thin tether of string I held in my hands. He was eager to fly.

I let him go, feeding the string for as long as I could. Until the knots became too much. KITE didn’t mind. He flew. Dipping, rising, fluttering, grinning, eyes sparkling, tail streaming with each breath shared by Wind.

I smiled to see the light in KITE’S eyes, his gecko feet flapping…. KITE grinned back at me. He nodded and waved.

William. Look! Do you see? He is smiling. Happy to be free.

KITE reached upward… to the silver clouds. He reveled in Moon’s attention. Look at meeee…. KITE trilled. I’m flyyyyying. Moon grinned. Through a thin length of string, KITE shared with me the ecstasy of his flight.

Together, William, Wind, Moon, Clouds, Sun, Sky and I… we shared the wonder of KITE’S flight until Sun waved goodbye. I knew I had to go.

I wound KITE’S string and he settled slowly, reluctantly, to the ground. Gently, I gathered him up. Tucked his tail under my arm. We picked our way carefully back, across the cattleguard, to the house. I promised KITE that, next time he flew, he would have more string.

RED PETUNIA

I don’t have anything against flowers.

I just don’t get too excited about them and I’ve never understood why people, mostly girls and florists, attach all sorts of meanings and significances to different types or colors of flowers. Red is for one thing, pink for another, white for this, yellow for that…. I finally gave up and married a woman who likes daisies. They’re easy. Yellow center, little white petals.

Over the years I’ve more or less come around to where I can tell the difference between a daisy and a pansy or a petunia and a rose and I know that geraniums come in shades of red, white or pink. They grow really good in old coffee cans placed in an east or south facing window and some are supposed to keep away mosquitoes. That’s a good thing.

What makes it more confusing is how flowers somehow get included, one way or another, in different legends and stories. Take hollyhocks for example. In parts of New Mexico they’re called Varas de San José. You’ve probably seen a picture of Saint Joseph holding his lily-studded walking staff in one hand and the Holy Child in the other? Well, there’s a story about how, when Saint Joseph got the news that he was going to be the Holy Child’s stepfather, he accepted the position right off. Miraculously, his old walking staff blossomed into pure white lilies… or something like that. Except in New Mexico his staff blossomed hollyhocks. That was taken by Maria as a sign from God that she should agree to take José as her husband.

My grandmother had all kinds and colors of flowers in her yard. She didn’t spend a