the magic seagull

reach out and touch faith

Gloucester, Massachusetts. Summer vacation in a seaside cottage and I’m four years old. The distant hum of flounder trawlers. My mother frying bacon in a cast iron skillet.

Here is where my grandfather filled his sketchbook with starfish and sand dollars. Here is where my grandmother scavenged for sea glass. Here is where the Magic Seagull began.

Each morning, I woke to find a gift on my pillow, wrapped in white tissue paper with a note from the Magic Seagull. Then, I believed in magic. In the filmy gauze of faith. In eternal life. In what could not be seen

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