I never thought of gull being slang for gullible. Maybe in not knowing, that’s exactly what it makes me. But I see them, living free by the sea, and if that’s being fooled, it’s a pretty good trick.
We have so many words for it, naive, Pollyanna, but I’m still a believer. And I suppose sometimes, even my own brain thinks of my heart as a white and gray bird near water, and yet it comes along, footprinting in the sand, knowing somewhere in all that belief and misbelief, we will take flight. I guess I don’t know how to live any other way. I have brushed away piles of sand upon sand. And still. I have averted hands swatting in the air. And still. I squawk, when others seem to know the words to the song. And still, I believe.
Because isn’t all that blue, lit by yellow, grounded by sand, isn’t that for everyone? I think so. I still believe. I’ll see you up there.
Most people don’t associate seagulls and farmers, but it was the first time I saw one, with my grandfather, in Florida. It was among so many firsts. Not just my first vacation with my mother, but actually my first vacation. My first time on a plane. The first time seeing the ocean. The first time seeing my grandfather in shorts. I had never actually seen his legs — only overalled on the farm.
They rented a condo on Cocoa Beach, my grandparents. My mom and I went to stay with them for a week, during the winter break of my seventh grade. It was so strange to see my grandfather at the gate of the airport. I had never seen him out of context. He grabbed our luggage and we drove off into the dark warmth of the Florida air. What was that noise, I asked. It’s the ocean, he smiled, as we pulled up to see grandma waving under the porch light. Every sensation was on fire. The next day, my lavender mid-western skin would be as well.
I raced to the beach in the morning sun. He was right behind me. The seagulls hopped all around. I kept looking back to see if he saw what I was seeing. By his smile, I knew that he did. As the wind blew at his shirt, I could see his tan was still that of a farmer. His shoulders as white as the sea gulls. And even with all these firsts, I felt the comfort of home.
I suppose we always take it with us — the things that make us care.
Sitting in a new hotel. At a new desk. Sometimes I have to look at the keycard, or the pad on the desk to even remember where we are. But then I paint the white shouldered bird, feel the love that I have been given from the start, believe that he stills sees what I am seeing, and know that I am home.
