Kite In The Snow by Karla Lopez

 

I start the three coffee machines at 4:45am to make sure they’re ready for customers. Everyone here in the small town of The North Pole—yes, it does exist, only Santa doesn’t reside here. The people here are early risers for work, school, winter sports, and whatever else people do in this town.

It’s only October and we’ve already had a few snowstorms. If you’re a native here in Alaska, you live for the snow. You’re excited to do every winter sport there is. Like I am. Playing hockey out toward the horizon is the best thing I know.

I miss it every time the snow finally goes away, and we have to wait the few months for it to hit again. I used to be big for the sport—the town’s hockey star. I was even scouted, but my intention was never to go pro.

I always wanted to own the coffee shop that my grandfather built with his own two hands. I love coffee—everything about it. The smell, the taste, the whole aesthetic of it.

I was born into it, and it brings me peace. The coffee shop has expanded since grandpa build it in his prime years, and now he’s gone, but not completely.

He’s still here.

With me.

Every day I get up at 4am and smile knowing that I’m keeping his dream alive—my dream.

One day, I hope to have a son or daughter who will love the shop as much as I do and want to keep the dream alive for all of us.

The door dings and I see my best friend and employee, James. He looks half asleep with his messy bun he loves to carry on top of his head. It’s sacred for him and the tribe that he was born into.

I admire his culture and how he wears it proudly. He’s half Native, Eskimo to be exact, and half Japanese—a great combination if you ask me. He grew up more with his tribes’ native culture because his dad raised him, but every chance he gets, he tries to learn about his Japanese roots.

I know how it feels to not understand or know the ethnicity you’re a part of. My mom was native, and her tribe resides in New Mexico, but she died when I was a baby. I never was able to learn much about my tribe other than what I learned on the internet. It’s not the same as growing up in it.

I was raised by my father’s dad who is Scottish. Now that culture and roots I know well. Even though my skin, hair, and eyes don’t correlate with that ethnicity, it’s all I’ve ever known.

When my mom died at the age of twenty-two in a car accident where my dad was the intoxicated driver who caused it, my grandpa took me in.

My dad got life in prison for the death of my mom and the two passengers in the other car. My grandpa did his best to raise me, but he raised me with his own views of a small-town person who didn’t know much about my mom’s side of the family.

My parents were high school sweethearts and my mom fell pregnant with me at the age of twenty while my dad was twenty-two. My grandpa always told me how in love they were, and when my mom died because of my dad, it changed him.

He became bitter and wanted to die too. He wanted to die with my mom, and he begged my grandfather to take me in and to forgive him. He wrote me letters about my mom when I was smaller but refused to see me. He said he wanted me to remember him as the man who was good enough to be loved by my mother.

I do remember him that way.

I don’t remember him as my mother’s killer. Just as a man who made a mistake that cost him the rest of his life and his own kid growing up without parents. That’s punishment enough.

I write him one letter every month and send it to him. I’ve been doing it since I could write. He never writes back, but that’s okay. I know it in my heart my dad just wants to know I’m okay.

The hardest letter I had to write was when I was eighteen and grandpa died of a heart attack. It was hard telling my dad that his dad had died, but it was even harder to tell him that I was completely alone at the age of eighteen.

I made the letter more hopeful than I felt at the time. I told him that I had James and Camila and that was enough. It was, but I was just a kid with a business and no guidance, but I knew I could do it. My grandpa knew too, that’s why he left me the shop.

I hope I’m doing him proud.

My thoughts are interrupted when James throws his bag along with his head onto the counter, making me chuckle.

“Tell me why I ever agreed to work this early?”

“You ask me this every day.” I arch my eyebrow at him.

“Because I have to wake up at fucking 3:30 every morning. Do you think they will notice if there’s no muffins and danishes?” I offer him a playful scowl.

“Yes, you’re the best baker in town.”

He frowns at me like I didn’t just compliment his art.

“I know and I regret ever showing it to you.”

“You’re a fucking jerk. You know you saved me with adding food to our menu.”

His features soften and now I know I got him.

“It’s your menu, I’m just passing through.” I roll my eyes at him.

“Ha—right. You keep saying that, but you’re still here in the town you were born in.”

“Nah, man. One day I’m leaving and never looking back,” he says with a faraway look.

I’m not offended that he wants to leave my side considering I’m his best friend and we grew up together. He’s a bird and deserves to fly free. I’m excited to see what his future holds.

Before any of us can get another word out, another ding sounds throughout the shop. We both look over to the door and see Camila, my other employee and friend, walk in.

She looks over at us and offers me a bright smile and heart eyes toward James. Her unrequited love still goes unnoticed by James, and my heart tugs every time I see her longing stare.

James is an idiot for not noticing. Camila is breathtaking in a soft, sweet kind of way. She’s kind and outgoing. Her Native Mexican ethnic background just adds to her beauty. He’s a real fool.

She makes her way to us as James goes to the kitchen to start on our breakfast treats we start selling at seven while serving all kinds of coffees and teas starting at five.

Camila stares in the direction that James went in and sighs. I elbow her and her pretty brown eyes meet mine.

“You know you do this every morning.” Her eyes move away shyly.

“I know, but he doesn’t notice me.” She pouts.

“James doesn’t notice anything that isn’t dough, a guitar, and a way out of this town.”

“But doesn’t he want to fall in love?” She questions as if it’s so simple to just desire love.

“I do think so. It’s just not with a person.” Her eyebrows scrunch up. “He wants to fall in love with life.”

“That’s so lonely.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Do you want to fall in love?”

I turn my eyes toward the large windows of our shop, toward the snow that’s glistening from the sunrise. My mind gets lost in that peacefulness before I answer her.

“Yeah, more than anything.” She beams like I just gave her the moon and the stars.

“Oh, Wyatt Carter, you’re a hopeless romantic.”

I chuckle at her statement because in a way I am. I’m a guy who’s in love with coffee, poetry, and cassettes—that’s the definition of being a hopeless romantic.

I continue my morning tasks until the first customer walks in. Our mornings are always busy until at least eleven, then pick right back up at twelve for lunch time.

“Mr. Dan, it’s nice to see you. How’s the fishing going?”

He chuckles in a grandfatherly old man kind of way that warms my heart.

“It’s going. The fish are being shy.”

“Aww, I’m sorry to hear that. I packed extra danishes and coffee into your order just in case you’re out there till sundown.”

“You’re good to me, son.” I offer him a friendly smile.

I walk over to the empty tables that have trash and start cleaning them while Camila is on register helping customers. The door dings and I smile widely towards Mrs. Ava—an elderly lady who loves to come in around lunch.

“Hello, Mrs. Ava, you’re looking real pretty today.”

“Oh, Wyatt, you love making me blush.”

“You know you have my heart, Mrs. Ava.” I wink at her as she walks over to Camila.

I chuckle at the disgust in Camila’s face over our innocent flirting. She thinks it’s weird. I just like making everyone’s day a little better, so flirting with the sweet old lady doesn’t cost much.

I continue cleaning the tables till I make my way toward the ones next to the windows. While cleaning them, I look out to see our town when I spot a beautiful girl sitting on a bench right outside my shop.

Her eyes are casted down and she’s lost in thought. Her skin is pale and malnourished, she looks fragile and small. I have this urge to hold her until some light shines within her again. Her shiny brown hair is up on top of her head, and she’s wearing a huge bubble jacket that’s too big for her.

I watch her sit out there for about five minutes, and I grow cold just watching her. It’s freezing, and unless you’re a native, you don’t really know how to handle the cold here.

I know for a fact she’s not from here because it’s a small town and everyone knows each other. I’ve never seen her before, and she sticks out like a sore thumb with her soft, milky white skin and blue eyes. Most of the people in this town are indigenous to these lands. They wear their ethnicity on their sleeves.

There are a few white folks in this town, but even with that, she’s never been around here, so I know she’s from out of town.

“Wyatt, can you help me?” Camila calls from the counter and I look over to the sad, beautiful girl one last time before making my way to the counter.

For the rest of the day, I keep looking out the window and watch her sit outside in the plain, freezing cold.