My little green treasure

They pointed out a small green dot; a sharp beak stuck out of it. His “owner” hated him—I think the feeling was mutual, as he would scream loudly every time he saw her.

My sister, with mischievous and conspiratorial looks, convinced Dad to give him to her; they never denied anything to their little girl.

A few days later, the little parrot was at home: his name was Juanito. They brought him in a large cage—too big for the tiny fellow; my sister jumped with joy, Mom frowned, and Dad smiled at seeing his little girl happy.

I was far away, watching the scene; it seemed like unnecessary torture for everyone present. The little bird was curled up, you could barely see one eye—an eye that, to me, seemed to look right into the soul.

They placed him in the patio; it was spacious and bright, with a roofed section for shelter from the rain. Dad got a dry branch, built him a perch, set everything up, but Juanito wouldn’t move, wouldn’t lift his head from under his wings.

I feared the worst; I said nothing and just observed. They decorated the area with plants, a waterer, birdseed, fruits, and newspaper to avoid a mess. The idea was to keep the cage open—that was my sister’s idea: she had her little green jewel and was eager to play with it. Big mistake: she put her hand in and her screams echoed throughout the house; Dad had to peel him off her fingers, she cried all afternoon and would stick her tongue out at him every time she saw him.

It made me laugh a lot; the poor animal got a scare and Dad got scolded, with the sentence that such a situation couldn’t happen again or he would have to go. A pity: finally, someone wasn’t a victim of whims.

Still, the cage remained open. Mom said that if he left, he was ungrateful and they weren’t losing anything anyway, he was rude.

It took Juanito a few days to leave his prison; I remember it happened one afternoon. I was doing homework when I saw him move: he came out cautiously, thirsty, hungry; exploring everything with a wary look.

I found it curious that he shook his body like a little ball: I couldn’t see his wings. He spent several days like that, sneaky; he’d come out in the quiet of the afternoon, eat, drink, and go back to his corner in the cage.

It became routine: my sister didn’t even look at him anymore and he grew more confident each day. One sunny Sunday I heard him for the first time: he was whistling. Maybe someone had taught him a tune; his song was beautiful and filled the house with joy. However, he would become hysterical if he sensed someone invading his space.

He barely allowed his water, food, and newspaper to be changed; every time my sister approached, he’d lunge at her with sharp pecks—same with Mom, who often yelled at him to get out of the house.

Their quarrels amused me; over time, Juanito would reply to her scolding, laugh, and even throw back the occasional rude word.

So I made it my mission to earn his trust. I still don’t know what led me to do it.

Step one: do homework near his space. I set up a table, a chair, school supplies, and a radio; he liked music. With patience, I got him to play with colored pencils and bits of paper; that’s when I noticed his wings were short and injured. He’d use the bits of paper as feathers and hop across the table whistling.

That was the time I began giving him compliments and blowing kisses from afar, afraid of being attacked. Gradually, our shared space grew longer and the distance between us shorter.

Every time I got back from school, I’d stop to greet him and bring him a cookie; at first, I just left it in his feeder, then I began handing it to him directly. I whistled and he’d answer; I told him how beautiful he was and he’d hop around on his little feet. I discovered he liked the rain, so we never missed a chance to enjoy it together: he’d stretch out his wings in delight. Those were happy moments for both of us.

I moved on to secondary school, and with that came the challenges of adolescence: cruel wounds opened in my heart. I was picked on at school for being “skinny,” “a know-it-all,” for not fitting in. I came home sad and defeated, but Juanito was always there to cheer me up and ease the burden.

One afternoon, after school, some girls were waiting for me; they didn’t like a comment I made in class about ethics and freedom. They threatened and slapped me. I didn’t stop to see my friend when I got home; I stayed in my room crying, afraid to tell my parents—and he, my Juanito, flew.

After so long, he flew: he entered my room, landed on my head, groomed my hair, and stayed with me.

I remember that afternoon—with tears in my eyes—how a little parrot did so much for me in that moment. The wounds on his wings were a thing of the past, and I could finally touch him; his heart was healing, and he was healing mine.

My little one began to open up to the rest of the family: he no longer attacked, he sang, he filled the house with his light and splendid energy. He roamed everywhere; he had the freedom to come and go as he pleased, but he never strayed far from home.

On several occasions, I took him to the open countryside with the hope he’d find his own kind; he interacted with them, soared majestically, his emerald plumage shining from branch to branch. Yet one tour of the blue sky was always enough—he’d return to the refuge of my loose hair.

When Juanito came into our lives, he had already passed through many hands that hurt him and left him with a sour character. With love, patience, and calm, he transformed.

I don’t know how many years he lived or how they were, but I’m certain his final ones were happy. We moved from a traditional house to an apartment; it was small, with green common areas and tall palm trees decorating the view.

A flock of little parrots of his species nested there. Though my heart tightened, I knew that was what was best for him. The parrots began to visit his space: he’d fly with them, and I knew perfectly well that one day he would not return.

And so it happened: for several weeks, his joyful space remained empty. Until one afternoon I saw him return with a little female parrot; I understood perfectly. From time to time, he’d come and go, groom my hair, sing, eat, and bathe.

My little green treasure taught me the meaning of love.

When he finally left for good, he left a void that has never been filled. He was a friend, a confidant, a healing bandage for my soul.