riding for the feeling

I drove the girls to the beach in a moment of last-ditch summer or whatever the end of this is. We were all alone on the newly raked sand at Riis Park at 10am. So much wind. Small versions of seagulls or perhaps a totally different kind of bird altogether. Baby seagulls, let’s say. Flocking just like Adrienne writes about. Flocking like my choreography. Flocking like the way you do when something is unsafe, when a child comes too near to you and you and your crew just up and take flight.

We had about twenty minutes of peace, one half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich each. I pulled The Chariot, reversed, held down the rest of the deck with my other hand.

The wind began to toss sand up onto the blanket, slowly covering our existence on the beach, the lone beachgoers.

An NYPD helicopter began its familiar drone, flying strangely low to the ground. I started to think are we not allowed to be here? Did I miss a sign somewhere?

The helicopter circled low and over and over while the sand pummeled the three of us. Pia screaming “I’m beachcombing!” while doubled over looking at the shore. “I’m freezing!” Maeywn said as she left and walked toward the big concrete steps. The police helicopter ruining any potential fun. Was it actually making the wind? Was this punishment? The girls yelling for the wind to stop.

“Let’s go,” I said.

A park ranger pulled up with a hat and everything. Only you can prevent forest fires on the door to the office which he opened with a key, closed behind him while Pia stared hard, mask on.

Hamilton in the Moonwagon on the way home. Lady Liberty. Then forty five minutes of circling to fid a parking spot. Four fire trucks on our corner, the ladder up and over the building with the bar on the first floor. Everyone’s neck’s craned up towards the roof.

Later, I bought flowers to help me feel the old time texture of joy. The girls took them, arranged them all over the kitchen. I lit candles because our the light over our table had just blown out.

This is where it turns from chronicle to crevass.

The Chariot riding in and taking Ruth with it. The Chariot, powerful like the wind, riding the wind, riding for the feeling, taking us with it, the sand piercing the backs of our bare legs. The helicopter, droning on and on for some unforeseen reason.

We can’t see it.

Or it doesn’t exist.