Stages of Grief

 I keep hearing his conversational chips and chups.

I was often asked if he could do tricks. I'm sure he could have been taught, but that wasn't why he was mine. 

He was mine because we showed up in each other's lives at just the right time. He helped me weather a particularly bad storm less than a month into his time with us. And in return, he became one of the family.

He was my bird, but he also belonged to us, because as I always say, we are a unit. 

And we as a unit are feeling his loss.

I hung up just now from the SPCA, hoping that someone surrendered him. They saw my report, but so far, nothing. 

His cage sits in our backyard.  I could bring it in and stow it downstairs; I could turn this off in my head. I could pretend he was never here. 

But...he left his mark, and I feel his absence.  He is not the greatest magnitude of loss I've suffered in my life--he was a bird, a pet, after all. Not a human being. Not even a fur baby.  He weighed all of 90 g. Tiny thing, little bird, I called him.

I see him, hanging out under the table cloth, his own blanket fort. He carefully climbs down to the floor.  Explores, pecks around. I remind the boys to mind their step. Nugget chups his own reminder from under the table.

I feel eyes on me, and there he is, standing next to the chair, tiny little thing standing as tall as he can, looking up at me. I reach down, pick him up. He alights on my shoulder for a bit, then sidles down to my lap.  He preens, safe from all predators.

And then he tucks his beak into the down behind his wings. And sleeps.