Helicopters in My Yard
By Lori Jean Finnila
I hear the roaring of helicopters up high as my little weary, tiring head tries to focus on what it is and the landing that it is probably making of what I know of helicopters in my young little head in the driveway of my small, unfinished rural home in my young little life. I can’t tell the age of myself, but once again for me, the cellar is cold again and for some reason I am on the foam piece used for my parents bedding in our van camping trips. I can’t tell if I’m tired or not then; I seemed to have just come to enough to hear the commotion of my mother yelling for the people in the helicopter to land. Then she laughs – seeming not to be alone with this laugh.
In my more structured, intellectual, processed mind of knowledge (yet weary at times) today, I see her just saying, “Drop it,” as the helicopters wings seem to come so close to our house for a landing. But then with some gibberish talk from my mother – about my aunt’s entrance at this time, it then rushes off.
I can now perhaps remember a man administering a needle of some of what it was that was dropped off into my arm and I am out again. Perhaps this was my journey, my venture in life that leads to the so many unexplained theories of situations that has happened. What was I and my mother a part of to go through such lengths to subdue me? What was I needed for? What was I used for? The perfect rural neighborhood where some of the old still existed. Why did they want to keep me so quiet and so scared most of my life and the lengths they went through toward me?