100 Planes
My grandmother Yvette had been putting away the dishes after dinner. When I approached to retrieve a glass, I noticed that all of the dishes in the cupboard were dripping with water.
“Yvette, these dishes are still wet,” I said, maintaining a neutral tone.
“No, they’re not,” she replied, placing another drenched plate into the recesses of the shelves.
“I can dry them for you,” I offered. She turned to face me, her long gray curls struggling against her fleece sweater.
“What are you talking about?”
“I can dry the dishes for you. The ones you just put away are still wet.” I reached for the nearest towel. Yvette’s face darkened.
“I wouldn’t do that.” She shook her head. I became unsure of what I should next say. I understood that from her perspective I seemed accusatory. Yvette wouldn’t put away soggy dishes.
“I know, Grandma. Don’t worry, I’ll dry them.”
“No.” Her eyebrows scrunched inward. “Why would I put away wet dishes?”
“It’s okay, really. I’ll just-”
“No!” She threw her sponge onto the ground. “No!”
I took a step back. Yvette’s small body heaved with frustration. I had seen the notes she left around the house, most of which were detailed instructions on how to perform daily rituals such as bathing, brushing teeth, and tying shoes. The rest were tallies keeping track of mysterious variables. Only one of the variables I knew.
I decided to back off from the dishes and allow her to finish putting them away. I retreated to the porch. It wasn’t long until Yvette followed, her body still tense as she sat beside me. I reached into the chest we kept beneath the seat and retrieved her notebook and pen. I placed them on her lap. She looked down, her eyes flexed into a tight squint.
I dug further into the chest and removed two sheets of origami-grade paper in the shade eggshell.
According to Yvette, I began folding at three years old. I never had an interest in drawing or coloring. Origami offered a tactile, three-dimensional approach to paper, which was endlessly more exciting. For most of my childhood I produced simple abstract shapes. It wasn’t until later in life that my mind graduated from abstraction and sought representation. I made monsters, men, animals, plants, and machines. I gave the majority of my creations to Yvette. She always kept them organized by color on a shelf in her bedroom. For many years, I yearned to fill that shelf, to make it overflow with worlds of colors and patterns.
The loud droning of an airplane swept across us from above. Yvette’s head snapped upward. She let out a soft giggle and spread open her notebook.
“One,” she whispered, drawing a shaky tally onto the page. I smiled, my fingers gently smoothing an edge. Every evening, without fail, Yvette sat on the porch and counted planes.
I had designed the perfect origami plane. It maintained the look of a commercial airplane while incorporating a longer tail, which allowed for elegant flight once thrown. I would fold one for each plane we saw during our porch sessions. I had streamlined the process. Paper relaxed under my touch. It didn’t fight, or struggle; it softened, enabling my hands to guide it toward fruition.
“Two!” Yvette exclaimed, pointing toward a blue jet emerging through the clouds. I kept my paper planes in an oversized basket by the door. I threw the eggshell-colored plane inside and retrieved two new sheets of Prussian blue.
As a child, I recall asking Yvette if I could become an origami master as my career.
“Well,” she replied, her index finger scratching at her chin, “I’m not sure. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth pursuing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Portions of life should be for enjoyment, Frances. Not everything is work.” I nodded, forming a covenant with her statement.
That summer, Yvette encouraged me to compete. She found an advertisement for an origami contest at a local craft fair.
“Frances, you have to!” she begged, as she presented the flyer to me.
“I don’t know, Grandma. What if I don’t win?”
“If you don’t win, you’ll learn how to win next time.”
I was convinced. I entered two categories: design and speed. In the weeks leading up to the competition I folded until my hands ached. For design, I created a larger-than-life butterfly with orange and pink paper. I even included a small, spiraled proboscis. For speed, I practiced until I was able to fold a crane in thirty-two seconds.
Yvette drove me to the fair. I sat in the back seat, cradling my elaborate butterfly in my arms. When we exited the car, my heart began to race. The fair crawled with people of all ages, shapes, and temperaments. My mind flooded with an overabundance of information. The man to the right of me chortled with his friends, his breath smelling of onion and coffee. The woman in front of us wrestled with a small child, attempting to pry something precious from their hands. A group of teens ran out from behind us, all of them shouting and snickering among themselves.
“Grandma, I don’t want to go,” I whimpered. Yvette immediately knelt to meet my eyes.
“Why not, dear?”
“It’s too much. There’s too much!”
“You mean the people?”
“The people.”
“I’ll be there with you the whole time,” she promised, offering up her hand.
“No!” I cried, stomping a small shoe against the ground. Yvette was silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.
“All right. You stay in the car. Give me that butterfly. I’ll be right back.” She took the butterfly from my hands and poked my nose with her finger. I crawled back into the car, my stomach pulsing with shame.
I watched as she walked toward a distant building, labeled CONTEST. I waited for a while, wiping at my eyes with my striped sleeve. About twenty minutes later, she came running out of the building, her hands high in the air, her face radiating pure joy.
“FRANCES, YOU WON!” she exclaimed as she neared the vehicle, “YOU WON, KID!”
“What?” I yelled, unlocking the car door and clambering out.
“YOU WON!” Yvette caught up to me and lifted me into her arms.
“I-I did?” I sniffled, my lips curling into a slight grin.
“First place, Frances! First place in design!” She pulled out a small, sparkling medallion and pinned it to my shirt. I hugged Yvette so hard that I squeezed a little breath out of her.
“Now you better get your ass in there and compete for speed!” she laughed, putting me back onto the ground. Yvette and I ran hand in hand toward the contest building, both of our faces warm with excitement.
I didn’t win the speed category. There was a kid who was able to fold a crane in thirty seconds, not thirty-two. Yvette didn’t care. She was so proud of me that day she never let me forget it.
After counting her twelfth plane of the day, Yvette closed her notebook and shot me a tired glance. I finished the plane I was working on and tossed it aside.
“Do you want to go back in, Grandma?” I asked. Yvette lowered her eyebrows and half-nodded. I stood from our seat and helped lift her onto her feet. I opened the door and led her back into the house, where she would likely sit and watch TV for the next few hours.
As I was in my room planning my piece for the origami contest this year, I became curious about how many planes I had folded thus far. I was quick to retrieve my basket and began counting.
“One… two…” I threw the planes onto the floor until I came to a consensus: I had folded exactly one hundred planes. In my mind, this was cause for celebration. These planes were a symbol of our tradition.
The next morning, I decided that I would surprise Yvette with my accomplishment. After preparing her oatmeal and coffee for her, I readied my plan. She was a slow eater. I sat in wait until I was positive she had finished.
“Grandma, I have something I’d like to show you.”
Yvette hummed in response, her eyes rapidly blinking.
“Please, come with me,” I smiled, taking hold of her arm and gently leading her outside.
“Alright, you just stand right there and look at me,” I instructed, positioning her in the middle of our yard. I rushed back towards the steps and collected my basket of one-hundred planes.
I perched myself atop the peak of the stairs and lifted the basket above my head. Yvette remained still. Her expression was unreadable. I took a deep breath, did an internal three-step countdown, and flung the contents of the basket into the air.
The variegated collection of planes immediately caught hold of the wind, their beautiful shapes flitting through the air like winged insects. Shades of blue and purple rose toward the clouds, their colors brightened by the sunlight. Pinks, greens, and yellows traveled in tightly-knit flocks towards the back end of the yard. Browns and oranges took sharp, rebellious turns amidst the air. White and gray planes spiraled downwards in graceful arcs, appearing defeated by their vibrant counterparts.
I looked for Yvette amongst the sea of paper aircrafts. Her head was tilted upward as she watched the spectacle before her unfold. Her eyes flicked from plane to plane. Her pink lips were agape. I grinned.
“Do you like it, Grandma?”
Yvette’s eyes suddenly locked onto my figure as a plane brushed against her face.
“STOP IT!” she shrieked, her voice dense with terror. “STOP IT!”
My face dropped, my heart pounding in my chest. “What?”
“No, no, no!” Yvette barreled towards me, slugging herself up the steps and grabbing me in her arms.
“Please, make it stop!” she cried as we both toppled onto the floor.
“Grandma, I’m sorry!” I wailed from beneath her body. I could feel her trembling as she held me, her mouth wetting the back of my neck.
“Stop! Stop!”
We stayed in that position until all of the planes had fallen, which, thanks to my intuitive design, took several long minutes. I struggled to breathe as she lay atop me. I strained my neck to verify that all of the planes laid motionless upon the grass.
“Grandma, it’s over,” I wheezed, attempting to push her off of me. Seemingly she got the hint and sat up, her face damp with tears and saliva.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry.”
“Planes,” she sniffed.
Once Yvette had calmed, I led her back into the house and sat her down in front of the television. I picked up the planes from the yard, stuffing them back into my basket. I stood and stared at them for a while. In that moment, I understood the true nature of Yvette’s illness. I couldn’t vanquish it. My grandmother had been forever changed, and I needed to find ways to love what she had become, rather than constantly yearning for what once was. Though she might have forgotten my name, my story, my relationship to her, she held on to something, and that something would have to be enough. I kept with me an infinite chest filled to the brim with our memories. I could search through the chest for hours, kindling my heart with Yvette’s warmth, fueling my passion to create.
I stopped folding planes with Yvette after that day. Instead, I sat next to her as she counted, drinking in her presence. Numbers became less sensible to her with time. Eventually she began to ignore their order and pronounce them as vaguely similar sounds, like “svin.”
When she ceased to remember how to hold the pen, I made tallies for her. When she ceased to live, I sat alone and counted the planes by myself.
Trace Wolff is an artist from Albany, NY. They are currently studying illustration at SUNY Oneonta. They also enjoy writing, making music, and reading major religious texts. They hope to combine their illustration and writing to create illuminated novels in the future. Their goal in storytelling is to stir others to do the same.