Last week, my sister's beloved lovebird, Tico, died. Becky had been stressed for weeks, studying night and day in preparation for her "comps," examinations required for graduate study in English. Becky has neglected her own wants and needs, let alone those of the exuberant bird. But now it was too late; she'd never see her peach-faced friend again. Heartbroken, she blamed herself for Tico's illness and passing. For example, Becky had recently lost her patience with Tico's relentless, high-pitched shrieking, particularly during study hours. To discourage these outbursts, Becky covered Tico's cage with a towel, banishing her to another room. The shrieking grew worse; however; perhaps Tico was trying to tell her she was sick. Becky, however, had been too wrapped up in her studies to notice. And now Becky was holding herself in contempt, as if she had been a negligent mother who had ignored the cries of her hungry infant.
I never completely appreciated Becky's love for Tico. Tico, after all, was just a bird. She was a clown-like parrot of sorts, albeit a mini one. I thought back to the time I had been overwhelmed by the jarring screeches and fetid odor of at least a hundred Amazon parrots at a pet store in Virginia. All I had wanted was some fish food, not an excursion through some displaced rain forest. To be fair, though, my negative impression of birds as pets probably dates back to a rather unpleasant bird-sitting experience I had in junior high. Feeling sorry for the captive parakeets, I had freed them to fly around our den. When I attempted to return them to their cage, however, the little monsters mercilessly pecked me on the head. Although Tico was more colorful, entertaining, and docile than the attack parakeets I had experienced, I had reservations about touching her, and preferred observing her from a distance. Even Becky acknowledged Tico's feisty personality, that she might bite without provocation. My sister, of course, fearlessly handled the bird. She'd even kiss Tico "on the lips" and allow her to perch atop her head. Becky particularly enjoyed singing silly songs to Tico, who responded by dancing a little jig along her perch. Although it was somewhat hard to admit, I found myself actually liking Tico. I would wonder if Tico viewed Becky as another lovebird, perhaps even a mate. But it was clear that Becky as another lovebird, perhaps even a mate. But it was clear that Becky viewed Tico as her own little baby, to love and protect forever.
I come from a family of overly compassionate and sentimental souls; indeed, we are soft-hearted to a fault. We are caretakers and rescuers, of humans and animals alike. Each one of our menagerie of animals at one time faced starvation, abuse, or death at a pound. Accidents involving the death of a bird or squirrel strike us as small tragedies, and we all dislike hunting for sport. In the spirit of family tradition, Becky volunteered at a local animal hospital, an experience that brought her as much joy as heartbreak. Among the dogs and cats she cried for was a fragile, white dove with deformed, shriveled legs; Becky named him Wiggie. Although the dove was pathetically helpless, Becky took him home and nursed him to health. I found Wiggie filthy and somewhat repulsive, but that little bird held a special place in Becky's heart. She would gently stroke its feathers, and Wiggie responded to her affection with soft cooing. When Wiggie finally died, she was devastated. Even now, I am amazed at the intensity of her grief, which lasted several months. But the memory of her "first child," Wiggie lived on in her drawing and paintings. And Tico will be remembered this way as well.
Last weekend, we held a funeral for Tico. There we were, five grown adults grieving at the funeral of the bird. I have to admit, it all seemed a bit absurd at first. Throughout the service, my mother cried and hugged us one by one.
Though inland far we be
Our souls of sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither
Can in a moment travel thither
And see the children sport upon the shore
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Then sing ye bird, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound.
We in though will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play
Ye that through your hearts today
Feel the gladness of the May!
What through the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight.
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind.
In primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be
In soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering
In the faith that looks through death.
This famous poem by William Wordsworth touched each of us and reminded us all of the universality of human suffering. Drawing from my own experiences with death, I could empathize with her grief, even over the loss of a bird. My father buried Tico's shoe box coffin in a little grave he had dug, near the grave of Wilbur, our beloved pug. I was lost in my thoughts. When we open ourselves to love, we become vulnerable to loss and suffering. And the pain we experience when we lose someone or something we love is what makes us human or mortal. How painful to consider that someone we've lost may no longer exist, on earth, or anywhere else. Was the essence of Tico, the fathered clown and nibbler of countless fingers and earrings, forever finalized in a pile of flesh and feathers? If there is nothing beyond death, something we humans cannot know, does it really matter? But we can hope and have faith that our spirits somehow survive death. Until we actually die, there is no chance to gain an understanding of death and the suffering it brings.
As we stood back from Tico's grave, I remembered the first time I realized my own mortality. I was seventeen and my grandmother was dying of cancer. It was a somber Christmas; the entire family had gather by Grandma's wheelchair. Grandma asked me to sing some of her favorite hymns. Holding back the tears, I miraculously got through the twenty or so she requested. But she sang along in a wee little voice, and my Uncle Stan sang harmony.
Finally the time had come. I was returning to school and knew this was the last time I'd ever see her. How do you say good-bye to someone who wanted to live but got cheated out of the last years of her life? As I surveyed the forced smiles on the others in the room, I knew part of each of us was dying. Then Grandmother delivered her last words to me, that I was no longer a child but a woman, and that I had moved up one generation of life's eternal rotary. Suddenly, I felt it...the agony of grief, my first sorrowful encounter with death. Waves of heartbreak rolled through my being, nearly collapsing my knees. Grandma was dying, but she would live forever inside each of our hearts; we were forever changed because she had lived. I couldn't stand it anymore. Overcome with grief, I threw myself onto her lap, desperately clinging to her. Grandpa, overwhelmed, began to sob and so fled the room.
As we sadly returned to the house, I wondered if Becky felt alone in her suffering. If only I could offer her proof that the spirits of Tico and Wiggie were still alive, apart from our memories of them. I envisioned Tico flying, completely free, something she had not experienced in life. Becky later shared that right after Tico's death, she had heard a bird tweeting loudly at her balcony. At first she ignored it, but when it persisted, she went over to investigate. She was startled to discover a huge, black raven focusing on her. "Talking" all the while, the mysterious bird pitter-pattered along the balcony rail and stopped, just an arms' length away from her.
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