The Kite

A short story by Billy T. Antonio

It is when we try to grapple with another man’s intimate need that we perceive how incomprehensible, wavering and misty are the beings that share with us the sight of the stars and the warm of the sun. --Joseph Conrad


He had it at last, caressing it the way his elders caressed their fighting cocks each morning. It was unlike his small, square tambobong which he had called a kite. This was big, shaped like a bird (beak, wings and tail were recognizable); its skeleton was a thin cross. He proudly lifted it up against the afternoon sun, and its colors—red, yellow, blue—shone brightly. It quivered with the passing wind the same time he felt his heart quiver.

The kite was a gift his Uncle Victor gave him along with a ball of nylon string which he wound, patiently and painstakingly, around an empty milk can he found among the trash his mother threw away that morning. At night, for the past few days, he had dreamt of a kite soaring in the bluest sky. And here it was at last.

In his dream, the kite soared high. He would often rouse and sit in bed pleased but unsteady. Joseph wondered if his kite could reach that high.

He was just about to take the kite for a test flight when he suddenly heard a familiar call. Joseph! He heard it again. Then he saw Lola Mercedes, his paternal grandmother, over at the pump, waving to him. He strode past the sturdy duhat tree where Ben, his eight-year-old brother, was poking its low branches with a stick.

“You’ll fly your kite tomorrow, Kuya?” Ben asked. “I can’t reach the ripe ones with this stick! You think it will fly?”

“Of course.”

“How high?”

“High—really high!”

“Can I fly it, Kuya?”

“No,” he said, “but you can watch me fly it tomorrow.”

“Could you help me pick some duhat?”

“They’re still green.”

Then he heard it again. Joseph! Ben! Louder this time.

“Let’s go!” he told his brother.

“But I still want to play.”

“Play again tomorrow!”

Joseph ran; Ben trailed behind him. Dodging the squat pump, they ran across the backyard and came, gasping deeply, to where his Lola Mercedes stood.

“Where were you boys?” she asked. “It’s already getting dark and your—” She squinted over the narrow yard toward the bend and the duhat tree. And the figure of a man came into view.
The man was Joseph’s and Ben’s father, Bienvinido. He was Lola Mercedes’ eldest son. He wasn’t short, but he wasn’t tall either. He was naturally thin. Marching barefoot, his movements were sure and absolute. He wore a straw hat, faded gray long-sleeves rolled up elbow- high, and a pair of denim shorts which, obviously, was once blue jeans. The hot sun had tanned his skin; however, Joseph and Ben had fair skin, a trait the boys had inherited from their mother.
Joseph looked exactly like his father. Aunt Sam told Joseph that, and it was evident in the old photographs.

Bienvinido hung his sheathed bolo and removed his straw hat. Then he went to wash the mud that clung and caked on his scrawny legs. Vigorously, he raised and lowered the pump’s handle until cold water gushed out.

Joseph went ahead of Ben and his Lola Mercedes into the house. He placed the kite in a corner near the kitchen door, putting it where it was safe from the cat and the dog and high enough from Ben’s reach. Then he helped his mother set the table for early dinner.


As always, his mother laid her Saturday wash quite early, while his father, Ben and he crowded in the quiet of the sala. An aparador divided and separated the sala from his Lola Mercedes’ room. Opposite its eastern wall, the broken television set blindly stared at the sparseness of the small room. The door was closed, but the curtain-less windows, facing the concrete road, were open.

Joseph sat on the window sill, holding a book and looking like a bulol with his slender legs folded and drawn toward his body. His father sat on a rigid, while Ben slouched on the sofa. Glancing at his father, he noted the sleeked-back hair, wide forehead, deep almost piercing eyes and high nose. All these gave his father’s face an almost perfect aristocratic look.

To the neighbors, his father was Manong Kulas. Mrs. Fe, the widowed school principal, sometimes called out at the gate, asking his father to take a look at her son’s Yamaha motorcycle because it wouldn’t start.

“Manong Kulas!” Aunt Flory, their next door neighbor, would call out from across the low wall, inviting his father for merienda. Manong was affixed to a name when addressing an older person, but in the case of his father it was more than mere courtesy. This he knew.

To his Uncle Victor, Joseph’s father was Manong Bien. Joseph had often seen his father and his Uncle Victor talking about trivialities or discussing the day’s news. Occasionally, the two disagreed on their views, but they never fought nor forced the issue. Joseph’s father trusted his Uncle Victor; on the other hand, his Uncle Victor respected his father.

His Uncle Victor once told Joseph that his father dreamed of becoming a lawyer. When his father was only twelve, his Lolo Joseph (whom he was named after), his father’s father, died. At that tender age, his father being the oldest of five siblings took upon his shoulders the responsibilities his father left behind. His father’s dream was like a kite which failed to reach the sky and soar because it was never given the chance to fly.

But Joseph had never had a decent talk with his father. Perhaps it was his father’s stern bearing that deterred his efforts to talk to him. Joseph feared the remoteness, although his fear was brought about not by fright but by deference. Then his father rose and stood straight. He marched out the front door and closed it. Joseph resumed reading the book he was holding.


Joseph stood under the tall mango tree. Joseph glanced over his shoulder at Ben, trailing behind him as usual. Then Joseph stared at the open field before him. Beyond the field the native mango trees, the coconut trees and the bamboo grooves enclosing the field in all directions. The sky was unblemished. The sun fought halfway between zenith and sunset. Joseph scoured the sky, gazing intently until he saw the kites, one then two, then three, four of them soaring high, one of which hovered above the coconut trees, swaggering against the high wind, held by almost invisible cords which slanted toward the boys who were flying them.

Joseph whistled. The wind always blew hard whenever he whistled. Then he grabbed a handful of dust, opened his hand, and let the dust fall from his palm as the wind weakly blew it. He tried to whistle louder as if calling and urging the wind to blow harder.

“Will your kite fly as high as that green one over there, Kuya?” Ben asked, pointing at a particular kite in the sky.

“Yes.”

“I hope it will.”

“Of course it will.”

Having taught Ben the correct way of holding the kite, Joseph instructed his brother to walk farther. Carefully, he loosened and uncoiled the nylon string until Ben was a few feet away from him before he motioned for him to stop. He gave the sagging string a pull.

“Should I let go now, Kuya?” Ben yelled.

“Not yet!” he shouted. “Wait for my signal!”

Again Joseph whistled. He went on whistling for a minute. Then he felt the swift wind. “Now!” he shouted. Ben released the kite in the air with surprising quickness. The kite rose. Cleaving the air, it climbed higher. It tugged the string. He tugged back, thrilled but nervous. But then the wind stopped, its sweeping waves abated. Swaying from left to right, the kite began its slow descent.

Joseph dragged the string. He strode. Then he jogged. The kite began to rise again; but the wind stayed where the kite couldn’t reach. And the kite came hurtling down with a thud. Trembling, Joseph wound the string around the can as fast as he could. If the wind continued to blow the kite would have reached the level where it would smooth sail.

He saw his brother run toward the fallen kite. Joseph’s hands were shaking as he continue winding the string. Looking up, he glimpsed of the other kites soaring. The wind rushed, tousling his hair.

“What happened, Kuya?”

“It’s the wind. It stopped and then changed direction. The wind is high.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Wait.”

“But those kites over there—”

“It’ll be up to the wind. If it keeps changing directions, then the kite can’t stay aloof before it reaches that level where the wind blows constantly,” he explained. He began to whistle again.
“What if you run faster, Kuya?”

“I don’t think that’s enough. The right wind will come.”

“How do you know if it’s the right wind?”

“You don’t.”

“But—” Ben scratched his head. “I don’t understand. Anyway, the wind must be like you.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I don’t understand you.’

Joseph told Ben to take the kite where his brother would be facing west and he east. Then the wind came surging. “Now!” Joseph shouted. The kite rose fast. He uncoiled the string, letting the strong wind bear the kite higher and higher. The kite began to tug the string harder he had to grip the can tightly. “It’s flying! It’s flying!” He heard Ben’s excited shouts behind him. He stopped uncoiling the string. That time he heard Ben shout “Higher! Higher!” The kite began to rise above the mango trees, to glide along with the high wind, and to soar the skies. Faced with the blustering wind, the kite suddenly swerved to the left and plummeted down until it made a loop and rose again. The kite made several dizzying loops before it hit the ground. Although Joseph moved forward in the direction of the wind to abate its fall, he was unable to stop the kite from hitting the ground hard.

Vigorously, Joseph wound the string up fast. He saw Ben run toward the fallen kite. He ran, too.
“It needs a longer tail,” Joseph said, gasping as he reached where Ben stood holding the kite. He wound the string faster until his hands ached.

“Look, Kuya, they’re leaving,” Ben said.

Joseph glanced where his brother pointed at and spotted the other boys ambling home with their kites. Having wound the string around the can, he took the kite and he and Ben languidly walked home. Glancing over his shoulder, Joseph noticed the sun had finally reached the horizon, and the day was nearing its end.


It was the noon of that day. Joseph sat in the sala, absorbed in a book, seemingly lost in its pages as the hours ticked away. His mother meandered into the room. She was small, pale, sallow and inattentive. Taking her seat in a corner of the sala, she stared blankly at the closed door. She sat with a quiet abandon about her, with a reserve that equaled the remoteness of his father, but less daunting.

Joseph do-eared the page of the book he was reading, and then he placed it atop the side table.
“Have you cooked lunch, ‘Nay?” he asked.

His mother just sat motionless as if she heard nothing.

“’Nay, have you cooked lunch?” Joseph repeated.

“I’ll not cook anymore,” she said. “There’s plenty of cold rice.’

“But the rice isn’t enough for all of us. Besides, father wants hot and steaming rice.”

“I’ll not cook anymore.”

No more words were spoken.

Joseph was just about to stand up when his father unexpectedly strode with his haggard shoulders into the room. He looked exhausted.

“Have you cooked lunch?” his father asked, putting his red shirt on.

Joseph was silent.

“I didn’t cook anymore. There’s plenty of cold rice in the pot,” his mother said.

“You expect me to eat cold rice,” his father said in a hard voice.

“But there’s plenty of cold rice,” his mother reasoned out. “Besides I’ll not eat anymore.”

“I don’t care if you eat or not!” his father shouted. “I’m tired from work while you do nothing and you…you can’t even cook lunch!” His father’s blood boiled. He swung his fist at his mother. Joseph sat pale on the sofa.

“Enough,” his mother pleaded.

Then Joseph saw his mother’s lips bleed.

There was a silence as his Lola Mercedes and Ben entered. His father stood on the rug, his body trembling with anger. His mother was wiping the blood on her lips. His father glanced at the sofa.
For the first time, Joseph saw his father as a stranger. ●

Note: First appeared in the Philippines Free Press on January 8, 2005, 'The Kite' was read on radio 4EB-FM 98.1 in Brisbane on September 30, 2008. Billy Antonio was a fellow for fiction at the 44th U.P. National Writers Summer Workshop in Baguio City, Philippines. He writes for Philippine publications.)