Rebound

Here’s Shy Thunder with a pocketful of sunshine she never spends nor keeps for long, sipping blood-red wine in the house with tight shutters and locked doors. She’s crouched behind the starting-line on the couch in the living room. Afraid to pull the trigger. No one will pull it for her. Therefore, nothing ever happens.

Her lips are pursed in contemplation. Her expression otherwise blank. She could be anything, feeling anything. Thinking anything. Doing anything. Saying nothing.

Here’s the ornamental boomerang displayed just above the cold glow of the fireplace on the mantle of painted rust. That toy the ever-constant reminder of all the feelings she has, has had, will have for the bird that forgot how to soar. It is a looker, not a toucher. To be admired. Never to be used.

She’s tapping Morse code along the rim of a plastic cup colored like the Caribbean Sea.

Here’s the knots gathering at the very back of her head and right between her grey eyes, feeding a ravenous beast of a migraine, a gathering storm in her brain built on all that is, that was, that will be, and all that shouldn’t be, couldn’t be, have been, will not be.

In the tangible silence she crosses the living room and removes the toy from the mantle of painted rust. That boomerang. That tenderness. That joy. That agony. That obsession. That contentment. That revelation. That confusion. That weakness. That resolve. That hunger. That complete loss of appetite. That ultimate ticket out of here.

Here’s the dullest edge of the boomerang pressed lightly against the largest vein on the right side of her neck. Her pulse drums the rhythm of her heart into the slightly-frayed waxy hemp and the smoked and treated and smoothed and painted wood. The beat is wanton. A silent wish. A quiet howl. An earnest dance waiting still to commence, creating tension in the ballroom. A track-full of sprinters and one-mile runners and cross-country joggers and triatheletes all waiting for the sound of the very same gun.

Here’s the front door swinging open, as if by a breeze or a miracle. She’s filling only part of the frame. Poised, listening. To gods striking-out once again. To cavemen and farmers still fighting the same old glorious revolution. To blood, rust, and spray-paint.

Here’s the sheer desperation she feels as she wildly hurls the toy out-and-away so far the naked I can’t see. Across the glowing horizon. Into space. Gone. Done and gone. It hums a hollow tune as it flies readily away.

She watches it disappear and sighs in relief.

The burden’s gone. The problem’s solved. Exhale. Relax. Release. Let it go. Move on.

Turn around… and just, walk away. She walks away.

And that’s when it hits her.