My parrot flew away one evening when the sun was a distant clementine I could reach out and cup with my palm. My mother took him to the terrace where the tiles burned your feet and, pointing to the crows, said, “Look, that’s how birds fly.”
When my parrot first came to me a long time ago, he was a quivering baby, looking like a fistful of plucked chicken. His red beak was the only big thing about him. My brother told me he would grow with a collar around his neck, a gift only to the males of the species. I fed him a diet of mush with a syringe until he learned how to walk to me and climb up on my finger. My finger was a candy cane with the red, diagonal slashes from his claws.[Read more…] about Do You Always Remember Your Way Home?