On my return home, just off the car, I find myself at his feet a yellow parrot, which does not fly, but it is still there, waiting to be invested eaten by a cat or a car. Apparently he escaped from a cage. Not afraid, not run away. I think if I leave there will not arrive until tomorrow. I have the backpack, my daughter's arm, her basket, her doll pram ... how can I also carry a parrot? And leave him there to die?
The last bird that I found myself at his feet (on my part) was a sparrow fell from the nest. It was evening. It had been exactly six months after the death of my son Lorenzo. "It 's a sign!" I thought. And indeed it was, I took it, I cared for the whole evening, I tried to feed him, I settled for the night, with intent to deliver in expert hands of Lipu the next day but the day after the little anorexic was already dead as a doornail.
This parrot is another yellow instead use history: almost 38 years ago my cousin Paula, on the stairs of my house, let me bring her colorful parrot gives me a boost and makes me tumbling down the stairs. I was about four years.
think that tomorrow I'll find the yellow stone dead parrot? No, this time it's my cousin who left us pens, a dozen years ago, liver cirrhosis, after a life of wandering, heroin and prostitution. I always wondered if someone found it thrown in a parking, helpless, he would have picked up. I have not done. And not to avenge the fall down the stairs. I was just a kid. Paola was the only cousin with whom I have heard of intimacy. The only cousin in respect of which I never thought to belong to the same species. A race
self-defeating, with the fire inside, far from the beaten track from the good Samaritan.
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