The city sky is pierced by the cries of seagulls, the blue torn by their wings carryig memories of the sea.

They live on the rooftops, the ceramic geography of hills and valleys that above our heads, sprinkled with hanging gardens of moss and flowers, bathed in sunlight long after the light fades in the streets.

That is where they build their nests, protected from the wind by skylights, roof lanterns, chimneys, and dormer windows. It’s like another city, with its old orange-colored ground, populated by the shrill conversations of its winged inhabitants.

The sharp, incessant, and tender chirping of baby seagulls echoes through the streets, pierces the rooftops, and invades the houses.

The mothers fly in circles above them, screaming. They defend them fiercely, dive bombing dogs, St. John’s Day balloons and other imaginary enemies, and shamelessly stealing food from cafe terrace tables and the hands of passersby.

Then they walk awkwardly across the rooftops, followed by their children, stumbling on the ridgepoles and clumsily sliding down the tiled slopes.

It makes you laugh.

But suddenly they spread their wings, and a promise of horizon captures your gaze. It’s as if their wide flight could carry you out of the narrow city streets, above the brick-colored mountain range and back to the vast blue sea.

And you remember how he used to say ‘You always smell like the beach.’