Lucrecia

A month had passed since I left my house — or rather my mother's house, where I had endured my long and painful stretch of unemployment. In the end, a company in the capital district broke my losing streak. They hired me as a caretaker and let me live in a beautiful, welcoming house. The place, in a small and rugged suburb, had three bedrooms. The company authorized me to bring two companions. In the end, I moved in alone.

Days later, my mother took pity on my loneliness and came to visit. I told her the house belonged to a well-known multinational financial firm that had claimed ownership after a long legal process. She brought me two gifts: a delicious roasted goat, which I devoured on the spot, and a charming parrot she had picked up at the market, supposedly to keep me company.

-What do I feed it?
-Chocolate and bread, mijo – she answered before getting into the taxi.

I hung the cage in the patio and opened the door. The gentle bird watched me with its large, round orange eyes. It used its pale, sharp beak to climb down from the cage and walked across the cobbled tiles. Its wings had been clipped and it couldn't fly. I held out the broom handle. It climbed on cheerfully, and I carefully carried it back to its cage.

Its plumage was green like the branches of the guayacanes lining the house. A large yellow patch crowned its head. I pictured it ruling an Amazonian flock from a comfortable, finely crafted wooden throne, worthy of a king. Soon I noticed the black of its beak and the red feathers along its wings. Its femininity was unmistakable.

Being a good Catholic, I was convinced that all living creatures deserved to be baptized. What name would I give this charming creature? I thought of the sweet young woman with cinnamon skin and bright honey-colored eyes I had met during my university internship. Our love was beautiful and fleeting, like a spring flower. When the internship ended, she left for the capital in search of a better future, and I wept inconsolably at her absence. I decided to give the bird her lovely name: Lucrecia.

My feathered friend adapted to domestic life. Lucrecia fluttered quietly through the house. I, on the other hand, spent my days shut inside my room, which I had turned into a study.

As evening fell, I called my mother.

"Alexito, mi amor," she greeted me tenderly.

Lucrecia listened closely to the phone conversation.

My companion, though sweet and gentle, was extremely quiet. Her lack of outward expression began to worry me. I convinced myself that her inability to imitate human speech was due to some physical limitation. That misfortune only made my affection for Lucrecia grow.

At midnight, her loud squawk woke me. I ran straight to the patio and switched on the light. My presence startled the predator, which vanished into the shadows with startling feline speed. I never left her cage open again.

One day I forgot to give her her ration of bread and chocolate. Her piercing squawk woke me at dawn:

"¡Alexito, mi amor!" she mimicked, in my mother's sweet and tender voice.

I smiled, relieved. Her gloomy, stubborn silence was not some strange illness. Then it hit me how frightening and urgent hunger can become.

Her shyness faded like morning mist.

"¡Alexito, mi amor!" she shrieked every morning at six on the dot, demanding her ration.

I never used the alarm clock again. Her sweet, tender squawks replaced it.

One day, a heavy storm flooded the house. I armed myself with a bucket and mop and threw myself into the battle with courage and determination. In the heat of the cleanup, I stubbed my little toe and let out a swear word. It was an expression I used in moments of anger and frustration, and Lucrecia began to imitate it. How funny it was to hear her.

Lying with my head on the pillow, I drifted into slow reflection: what would become of Lucrecia, my beloved? I had convinced myself she had found a new love in the capital, and our messages had grown shorter and shorter.

"Distance cools everything," I thought.

I wondered whether my feathered friend had ever known love. I pictured her gliding through the green branches of the trees, eating fruits and seeds alongside her mate, and I felt compassion.

I understood that pulling her from her habitat and the company of other parrots was robbing her of happiness.

By the third month, her flight feathers had grown back.

"¡Alexito, mi amor!" she squawked, joyfully.

I smiled. And I held my silence and my solitude close.

Analysis and reflections from Fundación Loros

Lucrecia's story reminds us of the therapeutic power a companion bird can have: her morning calls became the most tender alarm clock. In the loneliness of that new house, Lucrecia filled the empty spaces of his life with her song and transformed his daily routine. Yet the emotional bond also lit up a broader awareness: he had to acknowledge that the cage was not Lucrecia's true home, and that keeping her in captivity would work against her nature.

Choosing to set her free was an act of love that released them both from confinement — him from his sadness, her from the bars. But that release, driven by the heart, teaches another lesson: returning a parrot to nature takes more than good intentions. It requires knowledge of the species, a rehabilitation plan, habitat management, and professional monitoring to ensure the bird recovers its survival skills. The emotion that guided Lucrecia's rescue opened the door to responsible care, and today her memory inspires conservation efforts: releasing without planning can mean exposing her to new dangers. To love a parrot is, above all, to give it the chance to fly safely.