That day, I was leaving the emergency room after waiting for several hours to be seen. At the hospital entrance, I saw a man sitting on the curb, holding a small parakeet close to his chest. Moments earlier, the bird had crashed into the emergency room window. It was weak, struggling to breathe, and bleeding from its beak. The man didn’t know what to do, so I approached him and told him I would take responsibility for the little one. I gently picked up the parakeet and ran to the street, searching for a veterinarian who treated wildlife. I called several clinics, but none would help. In tears, I called my mom and asked her to take him home so he wouldn’t die alone. Minutes later, my mom managed to contact a clinic that agreed to care for wild birds.
We arrived at the vet around 7 p.m. The doctor examined the parakeet and said it needed an X-ray to rule out internal injuries—its chest was stained with blood, and it was breathing with great difficulty. Something so small and fragile required all my attention. I was willing to pay whatever it took. They ran the tests, gave him an injection, and told me the night would be critical. To keep him warm, I prepared a little box with a perch and checked his pulse every hour. The next day, Lilo—as I decided to name him—was alive. I moved him to a small cage so I could continue caring for him.
Years ago, I had bought two parakeets from a market in downtown Barranquilla to give them a better life—their owners had not been taking good care of them. We lived in a rural area, and one day, by accident, both birds escaped and never returned. I like to think they found a good habitat. So when I saw Lilo dozing and eating in his cage, I noticed something in his eyes: the desire to fly. I took him outside into the sun in his cage and saw him trying to squeeze through the bars, convinced it was time to return to freedom. I was afraid he might strangle himself trying, but he kept insisting—it was his sign that he was ready to go back to the forest.
I contacted an animal rights activist friend, who gave me the number for the Corpomag Wildlife Center. I thought it would take days for them to respond, but within minutes, they called me back. Thirty minutes later, they came to pick up Lilo. Those five days of care had been intense: I fed him, cleaned his cage, and, most importantly, looked into his eyes to understand his pain. Even though I wanted to keep him, his place was not in a cage—it was among the branches. It was heartbreaking to let him go, but I knew it was the right thing to do. Lilo deserved to fly free.
As I watched them leave with his cage, I remembered that a year earlier, I had suffered a cerebral thrombosis. My recovery was miraculous: I came through it without any lasting effects. Seeing Lilo fight to survive reminded me of the second chance I had been given, and I realized my responsibility was to help him live—and then return him to his habitat.
Now, I know Lilo is flying free, and I find comfort in knowing I gave him a second chance. His eyes behind the bars taught me that a parrot should not live in a cage, but in a tree, feeling the wind. Although I cried when I let him go, I’m left with the satisfaction of having done the right thing. I keep the photos of his recovery and, most of all, the memory of his determined gaze: he didn’t want to live caged—he wanted to fly.