A paper flock of cranes
A Paper Flock of Cranes
by Alexander Daquinag
When my dad was diagnosed with Lymphoma, my family and I would fold paper cranes. It's a tradition for many people who have terminal diseases, particularly people from Japan. According to Japanese legend, one who folds a thousand paper cranes is granted with one wish, even a wish that could cure cancer. So every time my mom, my brother, and I would visit the hospital, we oddly fold paper cranes along with dad. Despite how orthodox it is to fold each crane in unison, there was an obvious diversity in the aesthetic of each crane.
My dad's cranes were always perfect, with the tail pointing downward, suggesting prominence of the wings ad next to one who observed his cranes. All of them were made in the obvious notion that an adult had crafted them. Each one was so sophisticated in comparison to ours, despite the fact that he used the same folding technique as us, the one described in the origami manual. The were elegantly poised, as if ready to fly away.
My mother's cranes had wider wings and a longer beak. It was appropriate for her cranes to have the aesthetic of a mother bird, seeing as she is a mother herself. I would imagine mother birds would require larger wings to shield, protect, and of course, smother their young one, as she often did smother my brother and I during those times. Her cranes had duller creases that my dad's of course, so her cranes looked calm and relaxed, as my mother looked back then, trying her best to conceal stress and fear, painting a sere image across her face. The overall unison of her cranes was on par to the uniformness of my dad's, which was very unlike my brother's approach to creating cranes.
I suppose I'll give him an excuse for the funky, untidy, uniform shape of his cranes because he was 7 years old and his developing motor skills were strangers to the complexity of origami, but that didn't help stop me from appreciating the beauty in his work. He made each one unique, and gave each on a soul. Every crane had different body lengths, even though we all used the same 8x8 cm folding paper. Some were hard to tell which end was the tail and which end was the beak. However, it was a work of a child, a crane-ling. The sprinkle of innocence on each crane gave off an aura of adoration.
My cranes, however were not adorable in the least. Each one had an obvious surface resemblance to my dad's cranes. Each one had a downward tail and a small beak, similar to my dad's, yet each one was not as perfectly folded. Each one I made was a substandard replica of his cranes. Not only were they not perfect, each crane was rushed and hastily folded. I was just a boy trying to grow up too fast. I wanted to be the grown-up, in case one went away.
However, I didn't need to be the backup. We finished all 1000 cranes as a family, and somehow, the strength of each family member putting a piece of their soul into each crane reinforced the wish. After the operation, we affixed each crane to the string, which I like to this represents the bond of our family. Each one of us fit together like a puzzle. We complement our shortcomings by coalescing, and together we can overcome boundaries and setbacks that come with being a family. I believe it is the strength and faith as a family that helped cure my dad. We will always have a strong bong, and nothing, not even cancer, can break it.
by Alexander Daquinag
When my dad was diagnosed with Lymphoma, my family and I would fold paper cranes. It's a tradition for many people who have terminal diseases, particularly people from Japan. According to Japanese legend, one who folds a thousand paper cranes is granted with one wish, even a wish that could cure cancer. So every time my mom, my brother, and I would visit the hospital, we oddly fold paper cranes along with dad. Despite how orthodox it is to fold each crane in unison, there was an obvious diversity in the aesthetic of each crane.
My dad's cranes were always perfect, with the tail pointing downward, suggesting prominence of the wings ad next to one who observed his cranes. All of them were made in the obvious notion that an adult had crafted them. Each one was so sophisticated in comparison to ours, despite the fact that he used the same folding technique as us, the one described in the origami manual. The were elegantly poised, as if ready to fly away.
My mother's cranes had wider wings and a longer beak. It was appropriate for her cranes to have the aesthetic of a mother bird, seeing as she is a mother herself. I would imagine mother birds would require larger wings to shield, protect, and of course, smother their young one, as she often did smother my brother and I during those times. Her cranes had duller creases that my dad's of course, so her cranes looked calm and relaxed, as my mother looked back then, trying her best to conceal stress and fear, painting a sere image across her face. The overall unison of her cranes was on par to the uniformness of my dad's, which was very unlike my brother's approach to creating cranes.
I suppose I'll give him an excuse for the funky, untidy, uniform shape of his cranes because he was 7 years old and his developing motor skills were strangers to the complexity of origami, but that didn't help stop me from appreciating the beauty in his work. He made each one unique, and gave each on a soul. Every crane had different body lengths, even though we all used the same 8x8 cm folding paper. Some were hard to tell which end was the tail and which end was the beak. However, it was a work of a child, a crane-ling. The sprinkle of innocence on each crane gave off an aura of adoration.
My cranes, however were not adorable in the least. Each one had an obvious surface resemblance to my dad's cranes. Each one had a downward tail and a small beak, similar to my dad's, yet each one was not as perfectly folded. Each one I made was a substandard replica of his cranes. Not only were they not perfect, each crane was rushed and hastily folded. I was just a boy trying to grow up too fast. I wanted to be the grown-up, in case one went away.
However, I didn't need to be the backup. We finished all 1000 cranes as a family, and somehow, the strength of each family member putting a piece of their soul into each crane reinforced the wish. After the operation, we affixed each crane to the string, which I like to this represents the bond of our family. Each one of us fit together like a puzzle. We complement our shortcomings by coalescing, and together we can overcome boundaries and setbacks that come with being a family. I believe it is the strength and faith as a family that helped cure my dad. We will always have a strong bong, and nothing, not even cancer, can break it.