I was cleaning up dinner last night when I heard it.
It was my husband, I thought, laughing loudly at something back in the mancave.
Except, it wasn't.
It was elder, who sounded amazingly in the moment like my husband.
I listened for a moment, he and his brother, laughing, sharing a moment.
And marveled again at how any more I can't seem to tell my men apart sight unseen.
There's a lot going on.
Understatement.
Mourning the bird. Fretting over elder, health issues plus mental health stuff. Somewhat (?) freaked out by the events of the last week. Add work to the mix. Stir.
Is there an order to the things on my heart? Nugget is still very present with me. I'm still replaying that morning in my head, how I came down the steps from retrieving him squawking from his cage, looking at him perched on my hand, wondering that this little being chose me as his human, and realizing that every day was precious, that there may be a last time, and to cherish this moment.
That resonates. That I somehow knew this was the last time.
But I KNOW that trip to the trash with him on my shoulder was not premeditated. He wanted to be on my shoulder, and I put him there, and he sat quiet while I cleaned. The sequence: I was cleaning out the pantry and discovered a forgotten bag of Halloween candy, which had ants on it. I huffed in disgust and slipped on the slides at the back door and beelined for the trash bin. I completely forgot he was sitting on my shoulder; normally tugging at my hair and necklace as a constant reminder of his presence, he was still and silent. Until I was well outside and well beyond the back door.
Halfway between the house and the bins, he squawked and flew off. I gasped, dropped the bag, and ran after him screaming for him.
I'd like to get that moment back and redo it.
But then there are other things that made me think he was plotting to escape. All the times he went stealth and deliberately hid from us post his first foray. The squawking could have been the prisoner banging his cup on the bars.
What would I rather, I find him dead some morning, or have the uncertain end where the last I see of him, he's flying off squawking with the wind, carried by it, and the heady freedom he must have felt with the wind beneath his wings.
That's the other thing--he had one intact flight feather. He had trouble making it to the top of our china cabinet. He had trouble making it to me from the top of his cage from 10 feet away. I admonished him to trust his wings, because it seemed like he didn't.
Right up until he soared up into the trees across the street. He floored me.
Maybe that was his plan.
Small bird, big brain in that walnut head.
I'm feeling his loss.
