The lorikeet landed on the balcony railing. It must have stayed perched there for a long while until we all collectively noticed it from the different positions we found ourselves in around the flat where I was visiting—the one in the Sydney suburbs, my parents’ downsize, five floors up and nestled amongst the soft layers of eucalyptus trees. It had swooped down and landed silently, likely watching us curiously with its angular twists and turns of its head.
My mother was the first to notice. She was always acutely aware of animals, nature, and cute things that cooed. She signalled first for my father’s attention in a quiet voice, careful not to startle the animal that was only a handful of feet away from her. I noticed the bird only after seeing my parents frozen in place.
It was an abnormally hot day in December, with temperatures soaring past the mid-thirties, and by afternoon, a strong breeze had started sweeping in, beckoning us to open all the windows and doors to let the stuffy heat out.
Because everything was open, our bodies in relation to the small animal felt so much closer than when watching it through thickened glass. Were we to have reached out our hands, it would, with its friendly, curious disposition, fly over and rest gently on an outstretched finger.
My mother was four or five feet away from the balcony railing. My father was two or three feet behind her. Then there was me, slowly reaching for a set of binoculars I’d purchased recently, thinking that bird watching would be my next meditative hobby to ease the deep-rooted sense of looming anxiety that perks its head up in your mid-thirties. I was so glad I thought to bring them with me. I brought the binoculars to my eyes and adjusted them as quickly and efficiently as I could to focus on the creature. While I’d caught glimpses of a few cockatoos and minor birds in trees the past mornings, I’d not been lucky enough to see lorikeets with their beautiful colouring and texture up close. Its claws wrapped seamlessly around the silver railing as it turned its head left to right, chirping at us as we all stared in awe and glee. At one point, the bird hinged its wings and bobbed towards us back and forth, as if curtsying and saying, in its very polite bird body language, “Pleasure to meet you, how do you do?”
Through the binoculars and just steps away, the bird took up the entire view. Each detail of its feathers sprang to life. The startled eyes darted around, observing the world, watching us, watching the sky, watching us watching it, watching the sky. Up close, each blue, green, or red feather on its wings looked like small diamonds weaving in and out of each other. An oily brightness radiated from its body. Brave bird, and curious, for wanting to perch so close to us.
In a moment, it flew away as if bored by watching fumbling giants, and we all stood there watching it disappear into the distance. It disappeared into the blue hues of the sky and the cooling breeze.
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It had been over ten years since I’d flown the coop, but every time I came to visit Australia, I stayed with my parents, and we always had to get used to each other’s company again. There had been a tension in the apartment beforehand, the kind that comes from claustrophobia, frustration, or even entrapment. The kind exasperated by heat. And the small bird seemed to break through all that noise with a simple beating of its wings.
The first to notice the creature, my mother was also the first to break our frozen silence. We were all still dizzy from our encounter with the bird.
She broke the barriers between us; my mother placed a soft hand on my tall and stoic dad’s arm and whispered, “That must’ve been Rory, wanting to say hello.”
It had been about a week since the cat died. Rory was frail, pushing on twenty years, and in the last few months, my parents had been carrying her back and forth from different rooms. In her old age, Rory beckoned them with her desperate mews, alerting them to her desire to move from one spot of the sun to another. She was still able to take herself to the bathroom, slowly walking over to the litterbox, bow-legged and hunched, afterwards telling my father in a forceful, deliberate voice when she was done so he could obediently clean the mess she’d made. They tried medication, changing her diet, and were hoping that she’d hold on at least until my plane landed, but in her last days, the breathing was starting to become heavier. It became more evident that despite the opiates, continuing to go on meant that she was living in pain.
My mum is always too fragile to go to the vet. To be next to the animals whilst they’re put down and sent off to a sweet sleep would be too much for her. She wouldn’t be able to bear holding their mere paws as they finally let go.
My dad is only marginally stronger than she is, but he bears the brunt of this task and has done so historically with all our animals over the last 30 years. Even before we came along, even with the mythical dogs and birds that existed in their lives before children, he was always the one shielding my mum from the sadness of their passing and death.
We were all alerted to Rory being put down via text message in the family group chat. He’d told us that her paws kept kneading into his hands right until the end, a gesture that became her hallmark as the most affectionate cat known to man. On her best days, she could curl up right into any nook of your body and just massage her claws in and out of you as if you were bread. She could do this right up until the point of being in a deep sleep. She would do this, almost automatically, even in the middle of her dreams.
When I arrived in Sydney, I saw that around the apartment, all of Rory’s relics were still being held in the corners of each room. The motor that had previously whirred and created a perpetual stream of fresh, filtered water for her was now off, and the flat had an air of silence around it. A basket with cushions and a thin layer of her oily, brown, golden Abyssinian hair. A food tray here. A food tray there. The light leather furniture, all slightly stained from when she slept there for too long.
It was obvious that my parents didn’t have the heart to dispose of all her belongings yet. That they weren’t ready to take all the reminders of her out of their sight. I didn’t press them, or ask questions; we were all in silent agreement that we’d like everything to stay just exactly how it was, for a little bit longer, before they had to go through the task of giving, or throwing, everything of hers away.
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The day after the lorikeet’s first visit, I found myself alone in the apartment when I heard a giant boom shake the entire place. The noise rumbled, awakening me from one of those midday summer dozes I found myself slipping into. Half asleep, I searched through the apartment, trying to find the source of the loud sound—a fallen cabinet, or a large piece of furniture that had crashed out of place, shattered glass—but everything was exactly in its right place. It wasn’t until my attention was caught by the shaking blinds that the source of the boom revealed itself: a small, injured lorikeet flailing on the balcony floor. She’d come back, I thought, the same bird as before.
She’d flown towards us with a great hope of reunification, but didn’t notice the thick plate of glass hidden in front of the billowing blinds. She’d propelled herself towards us with such great force it startled the entire home. Enough to wake me from a daze and find her defeated on the floor, trying to find a way for her wings to work again.
I cautiously approached her injured body. Her head was twitching, her wings crooked, her legs clawing at the air, trying to move, panicked and confused about being grounded here.
In a frenzy, I searched through my phone for ways to help the creature whilst simultaneously flinging a slew of cryptic text messages to my parents. SOS. BIRD!! HELP!! CRUSHED BIRD BALCONY!! WINDOW SMUDGED (sorry Mum).
The internet has its way of being both incredibly resourceful and deeply cruel. Amid googling “bird crashed into window, what do I do?” the responses from the World Wide Web had their fair share of doubtful cynicism.
If the bird’s beak is damaged, it’s a goner. It won’t survive in the wild again; best to put it out of its misery. Jesus.
Statistically, birds rarely recover from these kinds of injuries. Especially flying at high speeds. Snapping its neck will be quick and merciful. People really want to kill these things, don’t they?
If it’s twitching like a maniac, there’s probably neurological damage. My advice? Bury it in your compost; otherwise, the foxes will eventually get to it.
The bird cacawed at me. I told her to shush, that it’ll be ok, that I’m trying to find a way to help.
Eventually, the search engine suggestions led me to a local vet’s FAQ page, which provided a phone number to call and colourful, image-based instructions on how to care for the bird during its time of need. Punching in the digits, I was transferred to the local vet closest to my postcode, who advised me to bring the bird in as soon as possible and that they’d notify the wildlife authorities of an injured lorikeet in the area. In the meantime, they told me to try and keep the little critter safe.
I studied with fervour the swaddle technique that needed to be implemented to safely secure the bird. I bundled it up just like a baby in my mother’s bespoke, embroidered, kitchen towelettes that were delicately folded in kitchen drawers. As I approached, it let out another loud screech, not wanting the skittish giant to approach it any further. Her claws no longer grasped at the air, but pointed directly at me as if poised to lash out in case I got too close.
Between her swiping claws and the irregular twitching of her head, I couldn’t figure out how to wrap the bird. She pushed her wings, desperate to get back onto her feet, and she moved erratically. I nudged the creature slightly, getting an idea of her size, her body (so small, so light against the weight of my hand), and then pushed her gently to one side just enough that she was upright again.
Now on her feet, moving step by step, the entire upper half of her body was still stooped and at a 90-degree angle, her wing still distorted and spurred up in a great display. I could tell she was terrified. Her wing was likely misshapen by the intensity of the impact, her spine possibly crushed, so much so that she might have been unable to fly. Yet her preservation instinct took hold, and she walked to the edge of the balcony anyway.
Nestled up there amongst the trees, there was a small gap in the balcony where the concrete ends and the glass began. This opening measured about four inches, enough for the creature to slip through.
I could imagine how easy it must be for someone to just look away and let the bird fall. One could then clean up the mess and carry on with their day. But we aren’t that kind of people. We’re the kind of people who would carry an old cat from room to room chasing sunlight. The kind of people who would hand-feed food mixed with crushed opiates so our old cat would feel less pain. We’re the kind of people who still keep a dead cat’s belongings in the corners of the room because we need a little bit longer to say goodbye to her. We’re the kind of people who want to believe that maybe she came back as a bird to make mourning a bit easier to come by.
Despite her objections and another loud squawk in my direction, I swooped the towelette over the broken bird’s wings, feeling again how weightless the creature was, and gently scooped her away from the edge. I folded her wings gently into her body as I wrapped her in the blanket like origami, a cotton burrito soft and safe, her bright green and blue head just peeking out from the top.
I’d crafted a nest out of a demolished wine box that sat in the recycling bin and placed the bird inside. I rested her on the grey outdoor sofa, the same one in which I’d received numerous photographs of Rory in the past, basking in the sunlight. Placing the bird there reminded me of all the times my parents must have carried and placed Rory there, too. And made me think of the small, almost unnoticeable acts of kindness we extend to creatures that have made themselves part of our lives.
Rory had been the last of the pets we’d shared collectively as a family. The last creature that would’ve remembered us all living under one roof. The household cat had always felt like an anchor to a particular place and a particular time. She’d been a witness, extraordinarily, to all our lives. Saw us through adolescence, through the growing pains, through the poor decisions and fights and yearnings we all once had.
She’d seen us mourn the death of other pets, of family members, of friends. She’d seen us leave the nest and come back time and time again.
The older we become, the more we start to lose these anchors to our lives. Things that recall ways that we had forgotten or would’ve been unable to comprehend. Things that hold up a mirror to ourselves and our past, of what we used to be like when we were younger, and when we thought we had so much time.
The first to arrive home from the frenzy of my messages was Dad. Serious, determined, we scooped up the box and drove to the vet ten minutes up the road. Every now and then, I peered into the box and noticed the bird’s frantic breathing and heavy heaving had slowed, calmed dramatically, defeated, or maybe peaceful in her soft, cotton-swaddled prison.
When we arrived at the vet, the receptionist must’ve thought we were insane.
Storming in, box in hand, I tried in tongue-tied desperation to re-explain the events of the day, but all that escaped from my mouth were the words, “This lorikeet is the reincarnation of our dead cat.”
But the receptionist was kind and, in her own way, could tell that we were trying to rewrite a history we had no control over. Had probably recognised my dad, who had been a regular at the vet over the last few years. Who had obtained new medications, new types of geriatric cat food. Who had been here only a few weeks before, another animal in his arms, and who had walked out empty-handed.
“You did good getting her to us so quick,” the nurse said to us both, reassuring us with a smile, knowing we needed the win. “He’s got a fighting chance now.”
“How will we know if she survives?”
With a pen, she made a few quick scratches on a card and handed it to us. “Call us tomorrow, any time after ten.”
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The next morning, we all woke up and tried to clean up the mess from the day before. A smudge on the glass. Feathers strewn across the concrete slabs. Cardboard pieces mercilessly ripped apart from the nest I’d attempted to make; parts of it were scattered across Rory’s old seat.
As it neared mid-morning, the flocks of birds began to retreat deep into the trees to escape the warming sun. In the distance, a pandemonium of lorikeets flew overhead, and I wondered if, like us, they’d lost someone, missed her dearly, and noticed the lack of her presence in the rhythms of their flight.
