Sometime in mid-October I’m at the beach and since it’s Southern California, it’s still warm in October, so I go in the evening. I happen to love sunset and twilight at the beach. It cools off a bit. The tide does its thing and people are lighting bonfires in the fire pits. They might cook sand-coated hot dogs on sticks. The mayo and relish will be in a cooler full of cold water and small melted ice cubelets. Maybe the ketchup is in there too, but never the mustard.
I have no hot dogs, since I’m vegetarian, but then I don’t have wood or matches either. And I’m sitting on the sea wall, avoiding the smoke. Seagulls are screeching and circling; some boldly strutting up to a hot dog bun. One bolts forward. He has the bun and his fellows are upon him. They argue in a cartoon cloud of screeching and the occasionally flying feather and protrusion of a foot or beak. One seagull stands to the side, watching; she is pure white, almost glowing. She notices me watching her watch and she walks over to the sea wall and plunks down beside me.
“You look well, Lily,” she doesn’t look at me as she talks, but continues to watch the bun battle. We are watching kids play-fighting in the park. Her voice is smooth and with the hint of laughter. She does not stutter or choke on her words, her spit, or whatever else people have to choke their words. This makes me smile.
“Mother, it’s your birthday today,” I’m glad I can remember, even though I always used to mix it up with my sister’s. “Happy birthday.” I wish I had something, (what do seagulls like, anyhow) as a present. Perhaps a whole pack of buns so she could fill her belly and impress her seagull friends.
“No Lil, it was my birthday,” she smiles and looks at me. I look at her. “My new birthday is in January.” Her radiance is comforting, her beak is yellow like the sun, like daffodils. She’s right. January.
“So I suppose this confounds all those horoscopes.”
“Hah!”
A pause as we watch the conclusion of the bun brawl. The baked good in question has mysteriously dissolved during the course of the argument. Seagulls walk and fly away in pairs, trios, or alone. I’m not sure if anyone is satisfied or distraught. Seagulls don’t really have facial expressions. I wonder if my mom is happy now.
My mother’s seagull face is radiant with her seagull smile.
“You needn’t worry about me,” she has the ability to read my mind now. “I’ve met someone. A nice young seagull named Jonathan. He is teaching me to fly.” And with that, she launches off the sea wall and executes a perfect back-flip double barrel roll before flapping her way high into the air. My last sight of her is a flashing white speck moving above the waves at 300 miles per hour before abruptly vanishing into another dimension.
End.

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