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  Table of contents Issue Twenty-two SEAGULLS

by
KRISTIANA GULAPA
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I

t must be nice to feel the cold water wrap itself against my skin this summer. It is August and today must be one of the hottest summers in the history of Florida.



I see a group of children playing in the sand, beautiful couples holding hands and a big, colorful beach ball lying idly under the hot summer sun. I keep saying the word 'summer' nowadays.



I love summer.



I miss sweat dripping down my forehead and into my eyes. I miss drinking iced tea and lemonade. I miss the warmth of its nights, the despicable heat of its afternoon sun and its blue skies come morning light.



I continue to watch the people by the beach as I sit here by the pier. I sit on the edge of the bridge, unnoticed, waiting for time to pass me by.



I eventually got used to all this waiting.



I catch myself looking down the edge and into the water. I stare at the dark spot under the worn down bridge again, as I always have. I sigh as I watch the waves crash against each other. The dark spot hasn't moved, hasn't ever moved since it was placed there for the ocean to swallow whole.



My body is numb and doesn't know what it feels like to be underwater for such a long span of time. I don't even know what my body looks like now. I think of moss and decay but I prefer to imagine that I look like I've just been sleeping all this time, preferably with flowers and seashells in my hair, waiting for someone to pull me out of the water and into the bright morning light.



It's dark in a gym bag. I just want to sit here by the pier, with the seagulls flying above me, waiting to be found.



   
   

 

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Kristiana Gulapa is from Manila, Philippines. She currently works eight hours a day and is studying to obtain a degree in Psychology. Reach her at kristianagulapa@gmail.com.



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