The sun was setting, but seemingly, torturously, slowly. The wind slowly picked up and the air just got colder. I could feel my skin tense up. I could feel the sadness slowly dawning. It's like in the mornings when I wake up sad, hurt, and all the feelings so raw, my soul so crushed that the day always seemed like an eternity that wouldn't end.
Of course, things would eventually get better, my mood lifted by the time I leave the house, but I would carry that burden of dejection from the morning all the way till my return to the bed, where it would be dark and the end hearkens. But now as the sun was turning everything into a golden monochrome, I wrap my arms around my knees as I saw on the coarse sand, listening to the waves, smelling the sea, and swim in my emotions, my thoughts.
There were seagulls all around me, minding their own business. Every now and then one would decide to run and flutter and fly away. I never realized I didn't know where they went when they flew to the sea. I never followed their flight. This time I did. They fly until I couldn't discern them anymore, out there, not too far, but far enough that the body disappears against the backdrop of the darkening blue ocean as they glided close to the cold surface. They don't wake up each morning feeling the weight of the world, the weight of life on them, do they? I don't know. They have their own, simpler problems. The male gulls do all sorts of things to win a female gull, though I am not sure if it's for life. Then there's the food and the feeding of the young. Me? I don't know what I am missing. Something is missing, something cyclical, every morning, then evening, then morning again. Everyday passes and the agony of fearing an eternity beyond the bed waxes and wanes.
Then I heard the screams of the gulls. I lifted my head from between my knees and turned to see what the commotion was about. There a woman was holding a basket and walking randomly on the beach, scattering white detritus that attracted a few species of gulls. At first I thought it was another silly old person feeding the gulls with bread pieces. I saw an old man do that just less than an hour earlier. Why older people get a kick out of this, I am not sure, but I think it has something to do with lost parenthood, or our own human egoistic to take care of those inferior to us in the most condescending way, or maybe it's just something else I wouldn't understand until I, too, get old like them.
There was something different about this woman's way of attracting the gulls. After the white pieces get thrown out of her basket, I heard a clanging sound, as if things hard and brittle were clashing. In my stupor of self-pity, at first I couldn't make sense of the sound, just noticed it, barely. But as the gawking and squealing got louder because she was walking towards me, I started to leave behind my baggage of thoughts and hurtful feelings and wonder what was causing the bread pieces to make that sound.
She was within about five feet from me. It was an amazing picture. She, an elderly woman with a typically elderly women's hat on, dress with flowers, and sunglasses, stood against the golden beach and the cloudless, blue sky dotted with flying gulls. I started imagining a photograph, slow shutter speed so that the birds would become lines around her, accentuating the frenzy around this rather peaceful-looking woman.
She scattered more bread pieces and more clanging sounds were made. But before I even mustered enough curiosity to see what was making that sound, she said to me, "I feel like I am in the movie, 'Birds'." Her voice was sweet but devoid of noticeable emotion. Her face was full of lines of a long life.
Then she solved the mystery of the clanging sound. She said, "They think I am feeding them." She paused to scatter more and then said, "My brother-in-law died of Alzheimer's last week. We used to come here to collect shells. I am just returning the shells." Then she threw another batch of shells around her; the gulls, still gullible, attacked the jettison only to be disappointed once more.
I didn't say the usual "I am sorry." I was too moved. Too moved by what she said, too moved by the lines on her face devoid of tears or joy, too moved by the comparison or contrast of my emotions to hers, to her shell-collecting buddy. We aren't lonely until we have found company, then lost it. The sounds of the scattered shells suddenly had meaning to me. I heard a departing soul against the background of the ocean. I heard love. I heard the words, "I miss you", "I love you", "I think about you."
Of course, I probably was projecting my own feelings of loss and loneliness onto what she was doing, onto what I saw on her face. I can't remember what I said to her, but it wasn't "Sorry to hear that." I let her move on, finish the scattering of memories, and leave the beach. By the last or penultimate scattering of the shells the gulls had wised up and no longer stalked her. Some did, holding out some hope for a simple need, or greed. And then everything returned to normal. I wrapped my arms around my knee once more and the gulls settled around me, all facing the sea.
But something changed. Everyone that comes in your life, even for that few minutes of doing something unrelated to your life, leaves some imprint. Most such imprints don't last, but some, regardless of the brevity of the visit, remains indelible forever. And I wonder how much strength that ritual I had just witnessed had just instilled in me so that tomorrow, when I wake up again, I can enjoy life's each precious minute a little more, collecting my own seashells that one day would return to the world.
