The Parrot's Last Words

Journal

The parrot remembered him. That's what made it so hard.

After her husband died, the parrot kept talking. 'Morning, love.' 'Don't forget your keys.' His words, in a bird's voice.

She couldn't take it. Every sentence was a ghost. So she called the rescue. 'Come get him,' she said. 'I can't do this.'

The volunteer arrived. And as she lifted the cage, the parrot said something new. 'I love you, Margaret.' She froze.

Her husband had taught the bird that phrase the week before he died. He'd never said it to her face that week. He'd taught it to the bird instead.

She sent the volunteer home. She sat at the table and talked to the bird for an hour. He answered in her husband's words.

Now every morning, the parrot says it first. 'Morning, love.' And Margaret says it back. It's not a ghost. It's a gift.

Some goodbyes aren't final. Sometimes they just learn to fly.