Birds don't go to heaven

They say love is red and lived with passion, but I learned that real love was green, and every morning it climbed to the rooftop to shout at the world that it was alive. And I also knew, much later, that birds don't die — because they are the sky.

The great stories begin without warning, as if life knows exactly when to break your routine and hand you something eternal. I was six, maybe seven, and it was night when my dad came home with a box in his hands. No special occasion, no real reason for a surprise. But the box was moving, and from inside came the sound of small feet, hurried, like something trying to get out.

—Open it —my dad said, in that voice of his that mixed mystery with conspiracy.

In my innocence, I thought there was a rabbit inside; I expected it, and up to that moment, surprises for me always came wrapped in the expected. But life had something better to offer.

I opened the box, and there they were. Two round orange eyes, the most beautiful I had ever seen. I didn't know what to do at first. The parrot, my parrot, was right there, looking at me as if he already knew me, as if he had flown his whole life just to find me. I offered my hand and, without hesitation, he stepped up. No biting, no fear.

Pepe. That's what he would be called, though I didn't know it yet. In that moment, the only thing I understood was that something immense had just begun. I knew nothing about parrots; I thought it would be like any other pet: give him food, care for him a little, get used to his presence. But Pepe taught me from that first minute that he hadn't come just to be there. He had come to be everything.

Sometimes I think of that moment as the first step of a love that asks no permission. Pepe looked at me with those fiery little eyes, and I knew, without fully understanding it, that he would be the joy of my days and the deepest sadness if he were ever gone.

Because you are what you love and what makes you feel loved. And Pepe, from that first nocturnal encounter in a small box, became the very definition of love for me.

They always say that real connections are invisible, but with Pepe the connection was as clear as the sky after the rain clears.

Every day with him was like living a small miracle on repeat. There was something special about his routine: that punctual racket at seven in the morning, his unhurried walks through the house, the way he climbed to the rooftop and took flight over the neighboring yards, rattling the mornings awake and rousing the whole neighborhood with his noise, as if the entire world were his. He was free even in his small universe, and I never wanted to break his wings or his spirit.

My connection with Pepe wasn't just that of owner and pet. We were companions in life, two beings who grew up together and taught each other how to be. I would come home from university and tell him about my day, as if he could understand every word, though he almost always answered with just an "¿ah?", which never failed to make me smile.

Pepe was more than a parrot: he was my moon. The moon that followed my steps, that lit up my nights and gave meaning to everything grey. He was there to give me peace, to remind me that even on the heaviest days, love was within reach — of a hand, or a wing.

I remember some family members saying to me:

—It's your fault he left, for not clipping his wings.

But how do you explain to someone that real love is not about locking away, not about trimming the other's essence so they'll stay with you?

—If I clip his wings, who would Pepe be then? —I would reply—. Because he was flight, he was rooftop, he was rain, he was sky.

Watching him climb the papaya tree, come down on his own to find corn, invite Paco along on his walks — all of that was Pepe. I never imagined him caged. The only time I saw him in his cage was when he went to sleep, and even that he did of his own will, as if to say: "Time to rest, mamá, I've had enough for today."

We understood each other without effort. And even though he barely spoke beyond his signature "Nataa", his presence said everything. That connection between us was invisible to others, but to me it was as real as the warm afternoon light when I watched him come back every evening.

Now that he's gone, that connection still pulses, even as it splits me in two. Sometimes I wake up thinking I've heard his sharp cry, and for an instant hope floods in — then I crash back into reality. My mind searches, my heart searches, and in dreams I still find him, though I know it's only that: a dream.

Because no one fully understands what Pepe and I were to each other. No one needs to. Because between him and me it was always simple: we were us, and that was enough.

With Pepe I discovered that loving and caring don't always mean holding on tight; I learned that sometimes the greatest act of love is opening your hand and letting the other choose the sky they want to live in.

There is something I will never forget: the day I first saw Pepe vulnerable. It was when, following the advice of those who said I should protect him, we made the hard decision to clip his wings. Deep down, I knew it was wrong, that it went against Pepe's very nature, but fear — that terrible fear of losing him — pushed me to do it. I thought that if he couldn't fly far, he would be safer with me.

The procedure was quick, but the invisible wound it left was far deeper. Watching Pepe unable to take flight was like watching a fish out of water, as if something essential had been taken from him. The first time he tried to lift off and couldn't, he stood still, confused, looking at me with those eyes full of life and questions. His frustration was real, and in that moment I understood the full weight of what we had done. We had clipped his wings, yes, but we had also taken his freedom.

During those days, Pepe was different. He was still affectionate and loud, but a spark seemed to have gone out. I carried him from place to place in my hands, helped him perch on the guava branch as if to make up for his lost flight, but I knew — deep down — that it wasn't enough. I would watch him stand at the high spots where he used to launch himself into the air, and stay there, still, as if remembering what it was to fly.

That experience marked me. I learned, in the most painful way, that love is not about holding on, that real love means letting the other be who they are — even if that means taking risks, even if it means losing them. I understood that wanting to protect someone must not mean limiting them or clipping their wings. And even though his feathers grew back and he crossed the sky again as before, I never tried to stop him again. I chose to live with my heart in my throat every time he flew away, knowing that he was happy, free, whole.

Sometimes we think that love means protecting at all costs, even at the cost of the loved one's very essence. But Pepe taught me that the purest love is the kind that lets be, that releases, that trusts. And so, even though his flight eventually took him away from me forever, I never regretted letting him be who he was: a free soul.

They say that when something leaves, it leaves a void. What they don't say is that sometimes that void also fills with ghosts, with memories that never abandon you.

Pepe disappeared on January 25th. From that day, the rooftop grew quieter and the world turned greyer. But before he flew away, he gave me the happiest years of my life — and no silence has managed to erase that.

I had the habit — or the hope — of thinking that Pepe knew how to come home. He always did, every afternoon, right at five. So during the first days after he disappeared, I would wait at the same hour, looking up at the sky, picturing his green silhouette crossing the air to land on the usual rooftop. But that afternoon never came back.

His absence became a constant presence. Everything he loved to do, every corner of the house where he used to perch, was saturated with his memory. Sometimes, when it rained, or when I cut open a fruit he liked, or left the window open, I was sure I felt him nearby.

I clearly remember the day I decided to go to the Aviario Nacional, convinced that my heart might find a piece of sky there, among the trees and the calls of other parrots. The air carried a mix of hope and anxiety: that irrational hope that I might see him, that somehow the invisible threads of fate would bring him back to me. Walking those paths felt like a necessary ritual, a way of holding onto the idea that maybe, just maybe, Pepe had made it there.

The birds sang, yes, but none of those songs resonated like his. None brought back that vibrant feeling I got hearing his "Nataa", that call only he could make. I stopped in front of a group of parrots, trying to find in their eyes the same spark that had caught me so many times. But no, it wasn't him. There was no trace of that orange flash in their pupils.

—What if he's here? —I asked myself, almost out loud. The question hung in the air like an unspoken prayer; even thinking it felt frightening. I thought about his noise, about how he always came home, to his rooftop, to the table where he ate with Paco, to his place in my life. I couldn't help smiling — a little sadly — as I went deeper into the aviario, not quite knowing what I was looking for.

But then something shifted. A whisper crept through the trees, as if the wind were carrying a familiar melody. My heart lurched. I closed my eyes for a moment and, when I opened them, I could have sworn I heard his whistle, his particular call. That mix of protest and joy. I searched with my eyes, desperate, but didn't see him.

—It's impossible, Nati —I told myself, and stopped, feeling foolish for thinking I could find him here, as if a miracle could simply materialize.

But in that moment I felt him close, closer than ever before. I looked to one side and a parrot flew past, with the same brightness in its eyes, as if we shared a secret. As it flew, the breeze moved its feathers with the same grace Pepe had when he landed in a tree. It wasn't him, but in my chest I felt that same vibration. A silent answer that needed no words.

I could barely hold back the tears. Somehow, in that moment, I understood something I had already suspected: that sometimes love doesn't leave entirely, that its essence stays in everything I touch, in everything I loved, in everything that keeps beating. Even as my heart grieved for not having him beside me, I understood that maybe Pepe had never really gone.

The people walking around me didn't understand the silence that had settled over me. They, like me, heard the birds singing, but they didn't understand that for me that song was no longer just sound — it was a melody loaded with memory and tinged with grief.

His leaving left invisible scars. I felt them every time I woke up and didn't hear him sing, every time my grandfather brought sunflower seeds and there was no one to give them to. There was once a parrot with mandarin-colored eyes who knew how to come home every day at five. They called him Pepe, and inside his heart lived a girl who loved him the way you love the first sun of the morning. That girl is me, and though the years pass, part of me stayed back there, waiting in the yard, with my heart in my throat and my eyes on the sky.

One afternoon, Solito arrived just like that, without warning, the way gifts arrive at Christmas: so quietly we almost didn't notice at first. My grandfather came home from work, his gaze tired but bright as always, and in his hands he carried a small box. My heart beat hard when I saw it — so familiar, so like the one that had held Pepe when he first came into our lives. I didn't know what to expect, but the moment wrapped around me as if time had stopped.

—I brought you some company, Nati —my grandfather said, opening the box with a conspiratorial smile—. A little chick. His name is Solito, because he came all on his own.

Solito. The name sounded like a quiet answer to the absence Pepe had left, a breath slipping into the empty spaces of my heart. That small chick wasn't Pepe; I knew that, but something in his gaze told me there was a piece of Pepe in every feather, in every small gesture.

Solito didn't know how to fly, didn't know how to sing, didn't know anything of what Pepe's life had been. But there was something in his eyes I couldn't deny. The brightness of his innocence took me back to those first days with Pepe, when we couldn't yet imagine the way he would take over our lives.

And then the small miracles began. As if he were an extension of my love for Pepe, Solito started doing things that unsettled me. He perched on my finger, as if trying to pass on some message from beyond, some comfort my heart didn't know how to receive. He settled on my shoulder, nestled there the way Pepe had done when he was small, as if Solito's soft feathers were an echo of the days I had spent with my beloved parrot.

Solito had his habits: he loved egg yolk, just like Pepe, and couldn't resist stealing rice from my plate. But more than that, what surprised me was the way he followed me everywhere, as if he needed my affection at all costs. What struck me most was how he made me feel: not as if he were replacing Pepe — no, he couldn't do that. But in his company, I felt the emptiness that had lived in me since Pepe left filling with a strange, almost otherworldly comfort.

But he left too. When Solito left, everything collapsed again. It was as if fate had allowed me one last chance to love Pepe through him, and was now saying goodbye. I cried for Solito the way I had cried for Pepe, because losing him felt like a circle closing. Losing him hurt, but what hurt more was understanding that life had allowed me — for however brief a time — to feel what it was to love my parrot again. And in that short stretch, Solito became a symbol of what could never be replaced, but which, in his presence, managed to give me the same love, however fleeting.

The pain of his leaving was just as intense as when Pepe left. And I was left with the same question, the same anguish that had followed my life since I lost him: why such a short time? But now I understood that Solito was not an answer; he was only a reminder that love doesn't always have a happy ending, but it always, always has its own worth. The love I had for Pepe is still alive, beating in memories, in the small things I shared with him that, in some way, I shared again with Solito.

Sometimes I think that a love that big had to leave marks on me — not just in my soul, but in my body too. Because who would have thought that love could make you sick?

When my eye problems started and I spent hours dealing with unbearable allergies, the doctor was clear: my eyes couldn't tolerate feathers, fur, or animal dust. He told me almost apologetically, as if he didn't understand that what he was cutting off wasn't just physical contact, but a bond of the soul.

—Do you have contact with birds or other animals? —he asked, serious.

How do you explain that you have four parakeets, three parrots, dogs, turtles, and that your whole heart was named Pepe? That was my real problem. Find out that an allergy to love exists, because Pepe was exactly that: a love so large it even hurt. But even as medicine asked me to step away, I never managed to do it fully. How do you let go of something that taught you the most beautiful way to love?

That's why imagining him flying free, probably with other parrots, is also imagining him beyond the reach of pain, beyond visible and invisible cages. It's a way of freeing him — and freeing myself, a little.

"He must be happy up there," my mom would say when she found me staring into nothing, eyes damp, thinking about him. And I, who so many times answered with a knot in my throat, now understand what that really meant: imagining him free is the only way I have of forgiving myself for his absence. Of accepting that, even if he's not on my shoulder, maybe he's among the clouds, laughing the way he used to, or singing "La cucaracha" to the tallest trees.

For me, imagining him free means making peace with the sadness. It means painting in my mind an immense Pepe, bigger than grief, with wings open to the sun and wind, being what he always wanted to be: a piece of living green sky. And even though it sometimes hurts to think that maybe he'll never come back, there's something beautiful in knowing he's where he belongs.

"There was once a parrot with mandarin-colored eyes who knew how to come home every day at five…", I repeat in my head and smile, because I know that even if he doesn't return, there will always be a piece of sky at five o'clock sharp that belongs only to him.

And now, when I picture him up there, flying among the tallest trees, I imagine he's singing, laughing, shaking his green wings in the afternoon sun. I like to think he found his sky — the one with no cages and no goodbyes, only endless flight and the promise of a freedom that never ends.

Because in the end I understood something: birds don't die and don't go to heaven. They already are heaven. And real love isn't always red and overflowing; sometimes it's green, sings "La cucaracha", steals grandmother's guavas, and flies, flies very high. So as long as a parrot crosses the clouds at dusk, I'll keep believing it's Pepe, coming home — even if only to land for a moment in my dreams.

Analysis and reflections from Fundación Loros