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?
