Throughout my childhood, I had several encounters with little parrots—unfortunately, not all of them ended well. Back in the nineties, it was quite fashionable to keep birds in cages—I suppose due to some mafia influence—and many people wanted a miniature “Hacienda Nápoles” at home.
My first memory involving a parrot was the time someone brought a small parakeet to my grandmother. It was the darling of the house, trapped in a chick cage. It even came with us on trips, because leaving it alone at home with the black cat was too risky. One time, we were playing by the river with my cousins while an uncle watched over the parakeet from the bridge. But during a sudden move by a drunk man, the cage flew into the current. My uncle screamed so loudly that his dentures flew into the river. You could say he lost both the bird… and his smile that day—neither of them were recovered.
Another tragic tale with these beautiful birds happened sometime after the river incident, at Aunt Olga’s house. I was maybe five years old, and back then I had a brand-new pair of boots that made me feel like I could conquer the world: jumping everywhere—on the furniture, the tables, and finally, the stairs. But when it was snack time, my aunt noticed her little blue parrots with white heads hadn’t come down to drink their panela water with cookies. Climbing the stairs, she found them crushed on the landing. I must admit, I didn’t even know those birds existed until I saw them dead. I felt incredibly sad and guilty.
Amidst my childhood, I began to model birds out of clay. I made them in all colors—and never in cages. Perhaps it was some kind of catharsis? Time passed, and not all my stories are sad ones: in the center of my patio stands a big mango tree, and every time it bears fruit, the parrots celebrate. They live among the neighborhood trees; hidden in the green leaves, they’re hard to spot—but their screeches and whistles let us know they’re there. They drop the pits, picked clean of pulp, and every year more birds come, since fruit trees are becoming scarce. “Progress” turns house-lots into five-story buildings where there’s no space left for green.
Years later, I met a woman passionate about birds, and we dated. I remember one of the neighboring houses kept a blue macaw in a cage. Every time I visited her, during those endless afternoons on the rooftop—where we’d lie watching the stars—we’d hear the bird’s sad cries, speaking nonsense words, longing to be one of the parrots we saw flying free at dusk. They returned from the foothills, settling in the tall crowns of guayacán trees before nightfall. We couldn’t stand the injustice, so we decided to call the environmental authority and report it. And we did: thanks to our persistence, the CAR arrived and rescued the bird.
I remember that feeling of triumph—of doing the right thing. Later, I gifted her a bird, not a real one—not even one made of clay—but one I carved out of wood, designed so that turning a crank made its wings flap… a tribute to that victory for freedom.
Some years later, our relationship ended; and though it was painful, I eventually came to understand a few things:
That which we love and admire should never be caged, because it might perish unfairly, like the little parrot in the river.
Sometimes, without meaning to, we cause harm—like I did with my childhood boots, stepping on the parrots.
The greatest act of love is to let go, to allow flight.
Even though I never heard that blue macaw again, nor watched the sunset with the bird-loving girl, I like to believe both are happy… free.