Lulú's Flight

Today is April 7, 2025, my 31st birthday, and my girlfriend just handed me the announcement of a beautiful gift: a birdwatching tour. People look at me a little strangely; a shy smile crosses their faces, and only the boldest ones — the ones who know me least — dare to ask:

"That gift — what's that about?"

Well, that gift is everything, and I'll tell you why.

When María Greisy Cariney and I met — after a break during which we swore we'd never see each other again — we found our way back to each other to travel to a nearby town and watch hummingbirds. Those two hours woke something so large inside me that it changed me. Today, my parents' garden is a place full of verbenas, shrimp plants, lantern flowers, and other blooms that feed hummingbirds and butterflies.

What's special about stories is that they let you travel in time, and many years back — in the most literal sense of the word — a small parrot entered my life by accident.

It was 2002, the day of former president Álvaro Uribe Vélez's inauguration. I think some fireworks went off in the sky, but I don't remember clearly; what I do know is that afterward the streets went completely silent — you couldn't hear a single motorbike. Everyone was watching the speech on television. TikTok, YouTube, and WhatsApp were nowhere in our lives the way they are today.

A loud thud broke the silence against the window, leaving a hole that to this day is still patched with a piece of plastic. A father, a mother, a 12-year-old girl, and me — a boy of 8 — had to pull ourselves away from the screen to see what had happened. A small parakeet, in full flight, had run into our house — and not in the best way.

She was on the garden floor, hurt but dignified. Her little beak was covered in blood, yet she still had plenty of fight left in her to bite. My dad found that out firsthand when he tried to pick her up, coming away with several punctures that broke the skin. We had to dig out the yellow leather gloves electricians use: only then could he grab her to clean and treat her. We saw him as a hero. Now Lulú, the parakeet, had a new home: our backyard.

At first she hated us. All you had to do was get close and she'd attack, or snatch the little squares of soda cracker we held out to her. When she saw the yellow glove, she knew what was coming: some antibiotic cream on her beak and feet. Clear irritation — but her stillness told us it was for her own good.

The family menu started to include plantains and sunflower seeds. While crackers seemed to delight her in our eyes, we discovered they were only good food in movies, like Paulie, the talking parrot. He, though clever, kept getting into all kinds of trouble through his innocence and trust in humans — playing detective, jewel thief, even mariachi.

To our surprise, sunflower seeds didn't quite win her over, and though she liked banana well enough, her favorites turned out to be figs — one of the most expensive and scarce fruits in Medellín. They say food makes you fall in love, and that was true for us: it was only then that she began to care for us.

First she stopped hiding and stopped pecking us. Then she let us feed her by hand and clean her den without suffering a foul-smelling attack. The next step was venturing inside the house, walking through every corner and leaving muddy little prints across the floor. Then came what made us happiest: she started climbing our clothes with her feet and beak until she reached our shoulders, where she'd perch to rest or sleep. She'd also climb onto our index finger when, too lazy to walk, she wanted a ride. Finally, as a show of acceptance, friendship — and we like to think love — she covered our fingers in kisses every chance she got. With tongue, which is not the same thing — you can imagine.

Lulú was a free creature, at least as free as a bird in captivity can be. We never clipped her wings or locked her in a cage. She received no punishments, only visits and treats. Her den was the cavity beneath the laundry sink, and her playground was the clothesline. A large patio, yes, but one surrounded by tall adobe walls that have nothing to do with the trees on the hillsides of my city. In short, our house was her house; she even made it upstairs to the second floor to keep us company while we watched television.

Every story has an ending, and ours is no exception — as the rules of life require. A hot, sunny day arrived. She had been with us for just over two years, and her wild instinct — the one that had made her fight off the yellow glove and our fingers — had faded. Lulú was our pet. She was, until a few days earlier, when she discovered she could jump: first long distances, then higher and higher. That morning she was up early to practice. She hopped to the clothesline and then to the roof, always looking back, calling us with her gaze, then turning to start again. She kept at it for a good while, until she reached the highest wall. She stayed there for a few minutes, singing like never before. She looked at us — a goodbye — and flew away.

At ten years old — thirteen for my sister — we discovered that emotions can mix and give rise to new ones. We understood that letting go of someone you love is hard enough to squeeze your heart and tighten your throat, and at the same time fills you with joy, because you know they've gotten their freedom back.

The days that followed, after school, we spent in the patio waiting for her to come back — even just to visit. She never did. All that remained of Lulú was a photo on a roll of film that, when we tried to develop it 20 years later, couldn't be recovered; the story we always tell when people ask where our love of nature comes from; the time spent together making memories we hold close alongside our parents; and a flock of parrots, parakeets, honeycreepers, wrens, and other birds that visit the almond tree Don Pascual planted more than 70 years ago — the one none of us will agree to cut down. But that's another story: let's save it for later.

Analysis and reflections from Fundación Loros

Lulú's story reveals two sides of our relationship with wildlife. On one hand, it shows the power of empathy: a small injured parakeet was taken in with patience, without forcing her trust, and with open spaces instead of cages. Those yellow gloves, the offered bananas, and the beak kisses show the best of human care when it acts with respect for nature.

But the story also exposes the risks of improvisation: Lulú lived isolated from her flock, confined between walls and broken windows. Her final leap — from the clothesline to the highest wall — was an act of courage we celebrate, but also a jump into the unknown with no release plan and no natural habitat nearby. The joy of watching her fly mixed with uncertainty about where she would land.

A clear lesson emerges from this story: rescuing and caring for a wild bird takes more than goodwill. Adequate habitat, the company of her own species, and a gradual reintegration process are all essential. Only then does the gesture of love outlast the moment and truly honor the freedom we mean to give. In Lulú there is hope that every flight ends not in risk, but in a full life.