Me and the Seagulls

“In the deepest of the sea lies a treasure,” she said, never once averting her gaze from the horizon.

I remember my mother’s chestnut hair, tousled by the breeze, and her gaze lost in the line marking the horizon, almost as if she were trying to understand what the waves were trying to tell her. “I saw it a long time ago, in a dream,” she continued, “It hides beneath the sea so we may not see it, but it’s there, I’m sure of it.”

I recall watching her performance from a distance, with cautious admiration, as she delivered her speeches to the wind or scolded the moon for not being full that night. She always recited the same speeches with theatrical, exaggerated gestures, so even the attendees in the back rows could admire her unique performance. But there was only me. Me and the seagulls.

I never understood my mother. I wouldn’t now either, although maturity, years, and back pain have taught me many lessons. She was crazy, or so everyone says. But to me, that woman, who shouted at the sea and spoke to the wind, is the closest thing I’ve had to a childhood.

From her, I only have that left. A list of performances etched into my memory that I’ll probably never make sense of. Performances that never cease to amaze me, at night, during the day, or at any other time my mind deems appropriate.

I’ve heard many things about my mother. She was an actress, a failed one, and a dreamer, all by trade. She was light and shadows.

Everyone remembers her with a smile on their face, they can’t help it. How could they? She shone like a star, until she fell, and sank into the same sea she sang to.

Now, as they tell her stories, they forget that I was there. That I was there all along. They forget that I saw my mother reciting her promises to the air, and they forget that I was the only witness to her final act.

It was in December, during one of her absurd performances, she decided to change her repertoire. “There,” she shouted, pointing to some random point in the water with a determination in her eyes as if her body were about to escape her.

Out of nowhere, as if she were not afraid of the cold, my mother threw herself into the sea. She didn’t think about it, not even a little. There was no great climax or resolution for that great work to which she was devoted. She jumped, and there was silence, only broken by the sound of water breaking.

Many stories have passed since then. Stories in which my mother was no longer the protagonist, not even the antagonist. In life, there is no post-credits scene, no footnote, no page to turn over and reread the story as if you didn’t know its ending. My mother’s story ended with a splash, and with it came the cold.

And with the cold come memories of her hair in the wind, and her determination to go beyond. The desire to search for something that doesn’t exist, just to avoid admitting that, perhaps, life has nothing more to offer.

Or, perhaps my mother didn’t jump. Perhaps my mother took flight, and just perhaps, she reached that treasure she pursued so fervently. After all, here I am, reciting stories to the same sea, in another time. Stories of one more crazy person among many, but one that people remember with a smile.

As I watch the water at the shore brush against my legs, and the sun caresses every inch of my body, I ponder what my mother saw in the waves. Perhaps my mother had a daughter just as crazy, who can’t help but feel understood by a person who, years ago, decided to be a seagull and leave her life on solid ground behind.

For a brief moment, I feel the cold breeze of the winter sea caressing my cheeks, and I finally believe that here, I find the treasure my mother longed for. It’s something profound that encourages me to follow it, venturing into the sea.

The water is cold, but it embraces me with every step I take into its bosom. With my head submerged, silence fills my space, and with my last breath, I feel closer to her than ever.

To her, and to the seagulls.