My life was very grey; they always gave me a potato and water. When I tried to tell them something, they would say "pretty bird!" But I was screaming to get out of there. My days passed in indifference and monotony; I only had my feathers to play with, so I pulled them out one by one, until I had none left.
One day, a woman arrived. She saw me and asked, "What's her name?" They answered: "Niña." She looked at me in such a particular way that I felt a deep connection. That day, everything changed.
They took me away in a box; I didn't know where, feeling the cool air filtering through a few small holes. Along the way, I arrived at a place where there was something like a tree. There, the woman took me out and set me on the branches. Even though I felt strange — I finally felt free.
That day I tasted something delicious I had never tried before: a strawberry, then a banana, then a papaya. That woman had two daughters; one of them came up to me, said I looked like a little ball, and named me PEPA. I adapted to that family quickly; they loved me so much that my feathers grew back and I put on a little weight, because they fed me well and always spoiled me. I love listening to music — especially rancheras. Strange, right?!
After those grey, monotonous days, my days filled with color and joy. I learned many things, including how to bark, because there was a little dog in the house they called Muñeca. My pastime was no longer pulling out my feathers; it was playing with bottle caps and lots of balls. Every night, one of the woman's daughters would come home from work and say goodnight to me before sleeping. I always waited for her.
Almost ten years passed like that, until one day I felt sick: I couldn't see out of one eye, it hurt badly, I started running a fever, and I was in a bad way. They rushed me to the vet; tests were run, and they said I was in very delicate health — the best thing was to wait. Back home, my mom and my sisters, as I now called them, gave me food and water, but I didn't want any; I could see they were very worried, and in their eyes I saw sadness. I made one last effort and drank a little water, but honestly it didn't help much.
The night wore on and I grew weaker, until, with my last breath, I heard them say: "Don't die!" — and I simply stopped breathing. I left that night, February 3rd; I saw them crying over my body, lying in the hands of one of my sisters. They couldn't believe that such a small bird had taught them a love so unlike any other, only to break their hearts by leaving.
A couple of minutes later I could no longer hear their cries; I was in a very dark place, I felt peace, and the pain was gone. I understood that my freedom had been with them: those women gave me a life full of joy, far from captivity. For me, that was freedom.
Some time ago I was given the chance to return to earth. I was certain I would find those women who had loved me so much — and can you guess? I arrived at the home of one of my sisters. She didn't recognize me, of course; years had passed, but I never felt that she had forgotten me.
My sister — Rosa is her name — welcomed me into her home with a lot of love. I couldn't find a way to tell her it was me, Pepa; so I started doing the things I used to do, like sleeping on her chest, playing with balls, and always following her around. One day, she recognized me and said: "You came back!"
In this life my name is Pelusa; I am a cat, but I will always be Pepa: that extraordinary love that managed to transcend and return to where it was truly free.