I’m ditching class to join the throng of Bostonians collectively fleeing their wintry cocoons to embrace the first signs of spring. As I pass tired joggers resting on park benches and young couples sunbathing on brown and green patches of lawn, I notice a man wearing a gray fisherman’s hat sitting in a motorized wheelchair. He’s parked on the edge of the Boston Common--a frozen spectacle among a frenzy of moving bodies.
My eyes move from his sock feet dangling over the footrest to the disarray of worn tote bags strapped to the back of his chair before noticing the long, white string extending into the sky.
“Help me fly my kite,” says the man.
“I haven’t flown a kite since I was six,” I tell him.
Kite Man uncurls his fingers and shakily hands me the fishing rod connected to the string.
“Now you’re ten, now you’re nine…”
As he continues to count backwards, I watch the kite flap in the wind. Kite Man’s hypnotic voice transports me back to a magical summer day when I am six years old.
The summer air is thick and heavy, and the smell of freshly cut grass drifts through the screen on the aluminum storm door. My Ghanaian father places three half-gallon cartons of ice cream on the kitchen counter.
“Who wants ice cream?” he asks.
“I do, I do!” My brother and I shout as we bounce up and down like two tiny versions of Tigger.
“There’s chocolate chip, sherbet, and neapolitan.” Each syllable in the word neapolitan rolls off his tongue like a string of marbles.
My coal-colored eyes dart back and forth between the three cartons. I finally point to the chocolate chip and then sheepishly to the neapolitan.
“I guess that means you want both,” he grins.
“One flavor is enough,” says my mother. “And don’t give her too much. She’s getting too chubby.”
I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“She looks perfectly fine to me,” says my father as he enthusiastically scoops medium-sized balls of chocolate chip and neapolitan into my bowl like the Good Humor Man.
My brother and I devour our ice cream on the back step, intently trying to lap up every last drop before the broiling sun melts it away. My father sits between us, scraping the inner edges of his bowl with a spoon. He ladles the remaining puddle of ice cream into his mouth, leaving behind a few tiny droplets on his mustache.
“What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?” I quietly ask.
“I like strawberry,” he replies. “How about you?”
“Strawberry,” I say even though I prefer chocolate.
“I have something for you,” says my father.
I peer through a translucent bag that contains a lifeless blue object. It doesn’t look as interesting as my brother’s new Rubik’s cube.
“What is it?” I ask with overt skepticism.
“It’s a kite,” he says. “I’m going to show you how to make it fly.”
I hand the fishing rod back to Kite Man and thank him for transporting me back in time before continuing my journey through the crowd. I don’t think about my father often. I’ve lived without him for 19 years. But for the first time in a while, on an unusually balmy Friday afternoon, I unexpectedly find myself contemplating his whereabouts.
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You can find Tiffany Amoakohene on Twitter at @TAmoakohene
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