Home Is Where The Heart Is

Prologue

I remember when I first saw her. 

She was struggling in the fields, half-hidden by the long tawny grass. I noticed a sly cat stalking nearby, the pads of his feet trodding softly towards the poor bird. Bravely stepping forward, I was surprised when even the ten-year-old likes of me deterred the tom as he grumpily slinked away. I bent down over the bird, who squirmed even more so upon seeing me. Careful to not let her scratch me, I cradled her in my hands - she barely fit in the cup of my palm - and picked her up. She calmed down after a while, and allowed me to take her home. Her wing was evidently broken, so I bandaged it up. 

I eventually found out she was a lovebird (thank God for Wikipedia). Lovebirds were well-known for their strong, monogamous pair bonding, being virtually inseparable from their chosen partner and sitting together for long periods of time. Such a rare kind, in areas such as this. She wasn't supposed to be around here. I chose not to worry about that and instead let myself enjoy her presence. She was beautiful, with her rosette-like head and light green feathers. 

Everyday, I would bring her out to the fields, sometimes letting her sit comfortably in my hand, sometimes letting her roam freely in the grass (looking out for cats, of course). She would come hopping back to me with a worm wriggling from her beak, peering up at me like she expected a proud smile from me, which I did give her, all the while keeping my stomach's contents in place. I loved these afternoons with her. 

As time passed, she began singing again. Just a tinkle of a melody at first, but they got longer and more beautiful each time. Her song seemed to create a symphony with the slight breeze and the stirrings of the grass. Sometimes I wondered if her partner heard her song, if he was coming to get her. Half of me wished he was, and the other half of me wished he wasn't. 

I knew I had to let her go. 

That day was like any other day, us going to the fields together. But I had her standing in my palms cupped together. She looked at me and tilted her head, almost quizically, and I just smiled. I drew my hands downwards before pushing her up into the air with my hands, giving her the lift she needed. Her wings flapped steadily as she soared off on her journey, the last trinkles of her song tracing her way. I watched and waited until she disappeared from the horizon. 

Watching her fly off, spreading her wings, a part of me went with her as well. Not as a heartbreak, but more as a form of emotional release.  

Because somewhere, out there in the world, there was someone waiting for her. And I trusted that they would be together again, that it was right for her to find him, that she would be just fine. You see, birds don't map their journeys out. They go where the wind takes them. But they always manage to find their way home, wherever that is.