The first time I saw a bird was when I was 7 years old. I remember being with my parents at the Bazurto market, somewhere in the maze of stalls. I wandered off a bit and ended up in a large room… I was shocked to see that the room was filled with thousands of small cages, each with parakeets inside. What struck me wasn’t just the number of cages, but how little space the parakeets had — the cages were round, small, and each one held two birds, leaving them almost no room to move. That day marked the beginning of my curiosity about what was happening to those birds.
The next time I saw a bird, I was 11. It was a Friday night when my parents arrived with a box, and inside was a parrot. My mom tipped the box on the floor so it would come out; clumsily, the parrot emerged, barely able to walk on the tiles… it was a baby. I immediately remembered my first encounter with the parakeet cages and wanted to check if it was okay, but the parrot quickly moved away and hid under the rocking chair.
She was terrified; she didn’t know where she was, it was nighttime, and the few feathers she had revealed how thin and underfed she was. That night, my parents introduced me to “Pastora” — her previous owners were a Christian family and had given her that name. Pastora would become my best friend for many years, my Saturday morning alarm, and my companion every afternoon after school… Over time, she became part of my family.
The next morning, I woke up eager to check on Pastora. It was Saturday, so I didn’t have school. I went to the patio and got closer. Pastora was just a baby: she had no feathers on her head, giving her a funny look we called “cocada.” With our limited understanding of what birds should eat, we fed her with a spoon — rice with milk or bread soaked in milk… I fed her like that for a long time, because she didn’t yet know how to eat on her own.
In the mornings, while I was at school, Pastora stayed with my mom, who took care of her, bathed her, fed her, and cleaned the cage. She always took the chance, when the cleaning was happening, to climb on top of the cage… to stretch her wings and feel a bit of freedom. In the afternoons, she spent time with me: whenever I got distracted doing homework, she would grab my crayons and open them all with her beak… Even if I ran out of crayons, I was happy just watching her.
Knowing that she could have fun with me made me feel good. The years went by, and our routine stayed the same. She was no longer a chick! She could eat on her own, and her body was now covered with beautiful green, red, blue, and some yellow feathers… especially on her head, where her “cocada” used to stand out.
My mom taught her to say a few words. Some of her favorites were:
— “La patica! Dame la patica de la Pastora!”
— “Juancho, Juancho, Juancho, Juancho, Juancho, Juancho…”
— “1, 2, 3… run, little parrot, the cat’s gonna get you, meow!”
Pastora would scream, laugh to herself, dance, and loved to bathe in the rainwater that came down from the patio roof where she slept.
Most of the time, she waited eagerly for me in the afternoons, because she knew that once I arrived, she could come out and play. Before entering the house, I would shout her name from the street to let her know I was home… and the excitement she caused was incredible! Spending so much time together every day strengthened our bond, and with her, I felt like I could truly be myself — with my fears, my likes, and my way of being. I didn’t have to talk — just be there with her.
She was the friend and companion I always wished I had in school, but never did. My childhood loneliness faded in her presence, even if that presence sometimes meant constant noise, scratches on my arms, and green watery poop on my shoulders or back… None of that mattered. I was happy to have finally found someone who, with just their presence, could understand and calm me.
But that happiness didn’t last. One night, I heard her whimpering… In her desperation to escape the cage, she had stuck her head through the bars, and when she tried to pull it back in, she broke her neck. At the sound of her faint voice, I ran to the patio to see what was happening… I found her on the floor of the cage, dying, until she passed. The pain I felt seeing her like that… that memory still shakes me today.
Knowing I had lost such an important family member just because we kept her caged left me breathless… and grieving throughout my adolescence. That night, I understood that birds are not meant to live in cages — they are meant to be free, to fly, to stretch their wings, and to share life with others. Although I didn’t get to see her grow beyond what she was, today I imagine her flying free over the hills and mountains… perching atop buildings and enjoying life with other parrots in freedom.