So he kneels down and prays.

The only thing that he remembers about his grandpa was that they were playing the kite, a white, rhombic kite painted by a kid, on the ground where there was nothing but grass. Besides, there is a photo of him and his grandpa, where he was taking the kite in his hand. That’s all meant by this name.

In dreams, the kite just flew and flew and never stopped, and they kept smiling, yes, smiling, smiling as the first sunlight flew from the horizon that lighted up a whole world, smiling as the first flower to open in late winter, smiling as they had seen all views one world could have, the seasons, the sea, the sun, the cities, the farmlands, the skyscrapers and the shacks, the normal and specials, the mortals and the immortals, and it all ends up in an old shack beside the sea. It’s a house, not painted, but pure color of wood, with nails, with a chimney, the roof beams, every single of them are so clear, with one window on each side, and a chair beside the door……

He feels himself falling, quite short and it ends him lying on a bed before his even noticing the fall.

He gets up looking at the farmlands outside, being aware of losing his mind.

He sees the things by his bed, Christmas socks, a pair of ugly, uncomfortable, handwoven socks that he has been saying all the times that he doesn’t need them anymore.

But he has to smile, he has to take them all, he has to hug his grandma and grandpa and say Merry Christmas.

He had once asked grandpa to fly a kite, then grandpa told him that the kite was thrown away ever since they played it.

Now he has to be taken to meet other ‘relatives’, thought he insists to not to go, he has to endure the long way with vibration of the old, roaring, three-cylinder engine.

In the memories, every single year that he saw the relatives, they say the same thing, no matter it’s the age or school, or whatever. In every single year, he grows older and taller and better, yet they wouldn’t even know those till that time.

The ‘relatives’, the relatives that he doesn’t even know but to call them uncles and aunts, the relatives that he meets at most twice a year, and beyond that, is endless silence.

On the way home, he sees the shop back again.

The shop with—

The shop with the violin, the violin that he has always been wanted, and he stares at the shop till the car turns into the corner. He remembers every single part of it, the color, the transition from the color of wood into another wood, and every wrinkle of that, where it’s smooth and where it’s not, when the wood takes more patience for a hand to go through. And beside the violin, there is a snowball and in it, it’s……

It’s a house, not painted, but pure color of wood, with nails, with a chimney, the roof beams, every single of them are so clear, with one window on each side, and a chair beside the door……

He has to control his mind now.

Another day, he told his grandpa that he was going out with some friends after lunch, but after crossing the lands by lands, rivers by rivers, highways by highways, they came to the town, and they went into the bar. It was already at night that he found out it has been too late, and it had been the second morning when he sees the gate of that house again, he slightly opened the door, and tried to step on every single point that does not make the floor to make any sound, and then, he saw his grandparents, sitting right to the door, staring at him.

‘You’d better give me some explanation of yesterday’

‘Well—I was just hanging out with friends.

‘Just? Do you have any idea how we didn’t sleep for the whole night waiting?’

‘Come on, it’s no big deal.’

‘Listen, to me now, if you dare come back at this point again, don’t come back!’

‘Ok fine, you know what, I’m leaving now!’

He thrusts toward the door and throws the door back with all the strength he’s gotten, he feels cold, doesn’t know if it’s because the winter or others having their home, and his home now is away in the city where he could not go back till the Christmas ends, but even he gets back, his parents would never let him to have any interest on anything besides studying.

So he keeps walking. He walks past the streets, past the dim lamps, past the grasslands, and past the river.

Having no idea how much he is now from home, he suddenly sees a vagrant beside the road, he wants to talk to him, for both of them are having nowhere to go when everyone else does.

The vagrant is wearing a hat big enough to cover his whole face, the only thing he could see is the jaw covered with moustache that are just like the grasses.

“Son, running away from home?”

“Y…yes”

“If you don’t do something now, you would regret it for your whole life, my son”

“What do you mean?”

“Here, my son”

The vagrant takes a small piece of paper out, and on it, it writes…

It is the bill of the violin.

The same one that he has wanted.

“Found in the trunk of the car, and remember, what has passed is past.”

Then he realizes he has been forgetting almost everything of his grandpa, the hand that took him to the river to feed fish, the voice that told him that he was doing fine and everything would still be fine, the man who drove him to buy ice-creams and kept it from his parents, the one, who always loved him, but forgotten by him; the one, who didn’t even get a phone call on birthday. One day his grandfather told him to clean the building for him, seeing how he cleaned it. When making every move, his grandfather was shriving, and with hesitation. He looks at the dark on the ground that represents such a proof of oldness, and after, desperate has taken over. It was his grandfather, who tried to do everything clean, but never of himself.

It was that day, it was every single day. It was every single day, with winds, with rains, with dust, all sheltered by him. It was every plant of brushes waving in winds, it was every leaf falling, it was sweats coming down, with wind blowing, it was the first flower that opens. He sees the black shirt for so long, yet he no longer remembers his glasses.

Years later, he realizes that the shirt his grandfather wore was not black, but colorful, with all kinds of flowers on it.

He takes out the photo that has been staying in his pocket, and he is taking something in his hand, but the part that includes the old man has been cut.

He knows what to do.

At least we could still talk.

He runs.

……

At home, his grandpa is leaving, before leaving, he checks in his locker, and there is the kite.

A white, rhombic kite painted by a kid.

He is now running on a ground where there is nothing but grasses.

He sees the shack. It’s a house, not painted, but pure color of wood, with nails, with a chimney, the roof beams, every single of them are so clear, with one window on each side, and a chair beside the door……

He sees an old man going in, and locks up the door.

……

Love you, Grandpa