They say love is red and lived with passion, but I learned that true love was green, and every morning it climbed onto the roof to shout to the world that it was alive. And I also knew, much later, that birds don’t die… because they are the sky.
Great stories begin without warning, as if life knew exactly when to break your routine to gift you something eternal. I was six, maybe seven years old, and it was nighttime when my dad arrived with a box in his hands. There was no special date, no relevant reason for a surprise. But the box moved, and from inside came the sound of small, hurried little feet, as if trying to get out.
“Open it,” my dad told me, with that voice of his that mixed mystery and complicity.
In my innocence, I thought there was a rabbit inside; I expected it, and until that moment, for me, surprises always came wrapped in the expected. But life had something better to offer me.
I opened the box, and there they were. Two orange, round eyes, the most beautiful I had ever seen. I didn’t know what to do at first. The parrot, my parrot, was there, looking at me as if he already knew me, as if he had flown his whole life just to meet me. I offered my hand and, without hesitation, he climbed on. No peck, no fear.
Pepe. That would be his name, although I didn’t know it yet. In that instant, the only thing I understood was that something immense had just begun. I didn’t know anything about parrots; I thought it would be like any other pet: feed him, take care of him a little, get used to his presence. But from that very first minute, Pepe showed me 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 doesn’t ask for permission. Pepe looked at me with those fiery eyes, and I knew, without fully understanding it, that he would be the joy of my days and the deepest sadness if one day he were gone.
Because you are what you love and what makes you feel loved. And Pepe, from that first nighttime encounter in a little box, became the very definition of love for me.
They always say true connections are invisible, but with Pepe the connection was as clear as the sky when it clears after the rain.
Every day with him was like living a small repeated miracle. There was something special about his routine: that punctual uproar at seven in the morning, his carefree strolls around the house, his way of climbing onto the roof and taking off over the neighboring yards, shaking up the mornings and waking the whole neighborhood with his ruckus, as if the entire world belonged to him. He was free even in his little 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 life companions, two beings who grew up together and taught each other how to be. I’d come home from university and tell him about my day, as if he could understand every word, although he almost always answered only with a “huh?”, 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 made all the gray make sense. He was there to give me peace, to remind me that even on the heaviest days, love was within reach… of the hand or the wing.
I remember some relatives telling me:
—It’s your fault he left, for not clipping his wings.
But how do you explain to someone that true love is not about locking up, not about trimming the essence of another so they stay with you?
—If I clip his wings, who would Pepe be then? —I used to answer—. Because he was flight, he was rooftop, he was rain, he was sky.
Seeing him climb the papaya stick, come down on his own to look for corn, invite Paco 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 by his own will, as if saying: “It’s time, mom, I’ve had enough for today.”
We understood each other effortlessly. And although he didn’t speak much more than his classic “Nataa,” his presence said it all. That connection of ours was invisible to others, but to me it was as tangible as the warm sunset in which I saw him return every afternoon.
Now that he’s gone, that connection keeps beating, even if it splits me in two. Sometimes I wake up thinking I hear his piercing scream, and in an instant hope floods me… only to crash into reality. My mind searches, my heart searches, and in dreams I keep finding him, even though I know it’s just that: a dream.
Because no one fully understands what Pepe and I were. No one needs to either. Because between him and me it was always simple: we were us, and that was enough.
With Pepe I discovered that to love and care you don’t always have to hold tightly; I learned that sometimes the greatest act of love is to open your hand and let the other choose the sky they want to inhabit.
There is something I will never forget, and it’s the day when, for the first time, I saw Pepe vulnerable. It was when, following the advice of those who said I had to protect him, we made the difficult decision to clip his wings. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t right, 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 much deeper. Seeing Pepe unable to fly was like watching a fish out of water, as if they had taken away his essence. The first time he tried to take off and couldn’t, he stood still, confused, looking at me with those eyes full of life and questions. His frustration was palpable, and at that moment I understood the magnitude of the mistake we had made. We had clipped his wings, yes, but we had also taken away his freedom.
During those days, Pepe was different. Although he was still affectionate and noisy, there was a spark that seemed to have gone out. I carried him in my hands from one place to another, helped him perch on the guava stick as if making up for his lack of flight, but I knew —deep down— that it wasn’t enough. I saw him stand in high places where he used to launch into the air, and just stay there, still, as if remembering what it was like to fly.
That experience marked me. I learned, in the most painful way, that to love is not to retain, that true love is allowing the other to be who they are, even if that means taking risks, even if it means losing them. I understood that wanting to take care of someone must not mean limiting them or clipping their wings. And although his feathers grew back and he soared the skies again as before, I never tried to stop him again. I preferred to live with my heart in my throat every time he flew away, but with the certainty that he was happy, free, whole.
Sometimes we believe that loving is protecting at all costs, even at the cost of the very essence of the one we love. But Pepe taught me that the purest love is the one that lets be, the one that releases, the one that trusts. And that’s why, even though his flight 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. But what they don’t say is that sometimes that void also fills with ghosts, with memories that never leave you.
Pepe disappeared on January 25. Since that day, the roof became quieter and the world grayer. But before he flew away, he gave me the happiest years of my life… and that’s something no silence has managed to erase.
I had the habit —or the hope— of thinking that Pepe knew how to return home. He always did, every afternoon, promptly at five. That’s why, during the first days after his disappearance, I would wait at the same time, looking toward the sky, imagining 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 I loved doing with him, all the corners of the house where he used to perch, were filled with his memory. Sometimes, when it rains, when cutting a fruit he liked or leaving the window open, I swore I could feel him near.
I clearly remember the day I decided to go to the National Aviary, convinced that my heart could find a piece of sky there, among the trees and the songs of other parrots. The air was charged with 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 through those paths felt like a necessary ritual, a way to connect with the idea that maybe, just maybe, Pepe had made it there.
The birds sang, yes, but none of those songs resonated like his. None made me feel that vibrant sensation I felt when I heard his “Nataa,” that call only he could make. I stopped in front of a group of parrots, trying to find in their eyes that spark that had made me fall in love so many times. But no, it wasn’t him. There was no trace of that orange glow in their pupils.
—What if he’s here? —I asked myself, almost aloud. The question floated in the air like an unspoken prayer, it was even scary to think it. I thought of his joy, of how he always returned home, to his rooftop, to the table where he ate with Paco, to his place in my life. I couldn’t help but smile, a little sadly, as I walked deeper into the aviary, not knowing exactly what I was looking for.
But suddenly, something changed. A whisper slipped through the trees, as if the wind brought me a familiar melody. My heart skipped a beat. I closed my eyes for a moment and, when I opened them, for a moment I swore I heard his whistle, his characteristic song. That mix of protest and joy. I looked around desperately, but I didn’t see him.
—It’s impossible, Nati —I told myself—, and I stopped, feeling stupid for thinking I could find him here, as if it were a miracle coming true.
But in that instant I felt him close, closer than ever before. I looked to the side and a parrot flew by, with the same shine in its eyes, as if we shared a secret. And as it flew, the breeze moved its feathers with the same grace Pepe had when he perched on 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 completely go away, that its essence remains in everything I touch, in everything I loved, in everything that keeps beating. Although my heart cried for not having him by my side, I understood that maybe, Pepe had never really left.
The people walking around me didn’t understand the silence that had fallen over me. They, like me, heard the birds’ songs, but they didn’t understand that for me that song was no longer just a sound, but a melody full of memories and shades of melancholy.
His departure left invisible scars. I noticed it every time I woke up and didn’t hear him sing, every time my grandfather brought sunflower seeds and there was no one to serve them to. There was once a parrot with tangerine-colored eyes who knew how to return home every day at five. His name was Pepe, and in his heart lived a girl who loved him like you love the first sun of the morning. That girl is me, and even though the years go by, part of me stayed back there, waiting in the yard, with my heart in my throat and my eyes to the sky.
One afternoon, Solito arrived just like that, unannounced, like Christmas gifts: in such a quiet way that we almost didn’t notice at first. My grandfather came back from work, his gaze tired but bright, as always, and in his hands he carried a small box. My heart pounded when I saw the little box, so familiar, so similar to the one that carried Pepe when he first came into our lives. I didn’t know what to expect, but the moment enveloped me as if time had stopped.
—I brought you new company, Nati —said my grandfather, opening the box with a knowing smile—. A chick. His name is Solito, because he came alone.
Solito. The name sounded like a silent response to the absence Pepe had left, a sigh that slipped between the empty spaces of my heart. That little chick wasn’t Pepe; I knew it, but something in his gaze told me that there was a bit of him in every feather, in every little gesture.
Solito didn’t know how to fly, didn’t know how to sing, didn’t know anything about what Pepe’s life had been. But there was something in his eyes, something I couldn’t deny. The brightness of his innocence reminded me of those first days with Pepe, when we couldn’t even 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 began doing things that puzzled me. He perched on my finger, as if wanting to transmit a message from beyond, some comfort my heart didn’t know how to receive. He settled on my shoulder, snuggled there like Pepe used to do when he was little, as if Solito’s soft feathers were an echo of the days I spent with my beloved parrot.
Solito had his quirks: he loved egg yolk, just like Pepe, and couldn’t resist the temptation to steal rice from my plate. But more than that, what surprised me was how he followed me around, as if seeking my affection at all costs. What amazed me most was how he made me feel: it wasn’t as if he replaced Pepe; no, he couldn’t. But in his company, I felt that the void that had remained in my life since Pepe left was filled with a strange, almost divine 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 somehow was saying goodbye. I cried for Solito, as I cried for Pepe, because losing him felt like the circle was closing. It hurt to lose him, but what hurt more was understanding that life had allowed me, even if only for a short time, to feel what it was like to love my parrot again. And in that brief period, Solito became a symbol of what could never be replaced, but that, in his presence, managed to give me the same love, even if only briefly.
The pain of his departure was just as intense as when Pepe left. And I was left with the same question, the same anguish that had followed me since I lost him: why so little time? But now I understood that Solito wasn’t an answer; he was just 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 the memories, in the little things we shared and that, in some way, I shared again with Solito.
Sometimes I think that such a great love had to leave marks—not only on my soul, but also on my body. Because who would have imagined that love could make you sick?
When my eye problems began and I spent hours dealing with unbearable allergies, the doctor was clear: my eyes couldn’t tolerate feathers, fur, or animal dust. He said it almost with pity, as if he didn’t realize 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, seriously.
How could I explain that I had four parakeets, three parrots, dogs, turtles—and that my whole heart was named Pepe? That was my real problem. I discovered that love allergy exists, because that’s what Pepe was: a love so big it even hurt. But even though medicine told me to stay away, I never truly could. How do you let go of what 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 setting him free… and freeing myself a little too.
“He must be happy up there,” my mom would say when she saw me staring into space, eyes misty, thinking about him. And I, who so many times could only respond with a lump in my throat, now understand what that really meant: imagining him free is the only way I have to forgive myself for his absence. To accept that even though he’s no longer on my shoulder, he might be 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 sadness. It means painting in my mind a Pepe who is immense—bigger than the sorrow—with wings open to the sun and the wind, being what he always wanted to be: a piece of sky, green and alive. And although it sometimes hurts to think he may never return, there’s something beautiful in knowing he’s where he belongs.
“Once upon a time, there was a parrot with tangerine-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 that belongs only to him.
And now, when I imagine him up there, flying among the tallest trees, I picture him singing, laughing, shaking his green wings beneath the afternoon sun. I like to believe he found his sky—the one without cages or goodbyes, just endless flights and the promise of everlasting freedom.
Because in the end I understood something: birds don’t die or go to heaven. They already are heaven. And true love isn’t always red or overflowing; sometimes it’s green, sings “La Cucaracha,” steals Grandma’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 it’s just to perch for a moment in my dreams.