The former lair of the Accidental Cootchie Mama sat in the flight path of the emergency rescue choppers for the local medical complex; and as of yesterday, it has been bought by a woman for her twenty-something daughter to live in while studying the law. Here’s a repost to honor the gift that keeps on giving…
She cannot escape the sound. Not by burying her head under pillows. Or holding her breath underwater. Or playing music at deafening decibel levels. Or shouting into the gale created by the blades of the hovering helicopter. The ampule of glass and metal is always there, droning in the sky above her house.
Sometimes, she has to squint to see it, a dot swallowed by a glorious expanse of blue. She can feel its vibration in her chest, but that minor irritation is a reprieve from the other days. The ones where she thinks it will land, its whirring metal blades hacking her to pieces and leaving her in a mutilated heap in her back yard.
It doesn’t land. Down and up, it spins. In and out, it hovers. Always watching her, stirring her atmosphere, perpetually moving, never still.
She tries to pretend the helicopter is something pretty, like a hummingbird. The rotating blades become a blur of tiny wings, the sound the slapping together of feathers of a chirping tail. A momentary illusion can give her peace for a few minutes, maybe a few days, if she focuses.
That’s the problem with droning, violent motion. A low swoop always shatters her. In the face of something that can fly up and down, forward and back, side to side, that has the mechanical ability to be tireless, her meager concentration is doomed.
So, she closes the windows, draws the blinds. She grabs her dot-like reprieves and runs outside to savor the blast of sunshine without its shadow to encroach on her dancing arms and grinning countenance. Carefree. Even with the oppressive cares swirling far overhead, she feels weightless, airy. Herself.
It never lasts long.
The helicopter taunts her. Sometimes it allows her to think she’s finally alone before it closes the distance like a lightening strike, kicking grit that blinds her eyes and chasing her to shelter. The windows rattle as its eyes of glass try to penetrate the house. Dishes break and books fall while she sits in a corner, clutching her stomach and heart to keep them from vibrating outside of her, perhaps to prevent them from stopping in the wake of the latest assault.
It never needs to refuel its rages. Somehow, it makes its own energy. Will it always ebb and crash, ebb and crash, pounding at her edges and ploughing through the center of her life?