The wind was strong. The little entrance door to the garden of the house I grew up in was locked and the force would crash it open. Friends were visiting, Ineke and Martin, arriving in the main entrance. Dad was still alive, though not well, and mom was always with him. They were worried about large dogs and the mess in the field in front of the house where missing blankets and bent matresses were. Peter, my friend, unlocked the little door of the garden after I asked, and now the wind could flow freely through, banging the door, now a several-panel door, continuously.
The crying seagulls flew outside.