River Baby looked like a mango created and painted with
sunlight. That’s what I used to tell everyone, half joking, half serious,
because it was the first thing that hit me when I saw him—this glow. Yellow all
over with that soft red fade on his face like someone pressed a blush there and
forgot to wipe it off. When we brought River Baby home, it wasn’t because I
wanted a second bird for myself. We brought River Baby for Lovey. The plan was
simple in my head: Lovey would have a friend, River Baby would have a home, and
our house would feel a little more like a tiny, noisy paradise. That’s how I
pictured it—two little birds, chattering side by side, sharing seeds, being
dramatic in that cute lovebird way. I was so sure. Lovebirds are “love” birds,
right? How could this go wrong?
It went wrong immediately.
River Baby was already grown by the time he came to us.
There are stories stitched into grown birds you can’t read on the first day. I
didn’t know his old home, his old fears, or his old routines, but I felt them
as soon as my hand went near the cage. He would fly to the farthest corner like
my fingers were thunder and the bars were the only shore he could reach. He
wasn’t mean. He never went for a bite. He just ran, heart thudding under those
mango feathers. That cage wasn’t a cage to him; it was the last safe room in a
burning house.
And Lovey …oh, Lovey. My tiny firecracker. If River Baby was
a mango, Lovey was the sky on a beautiful sunny, warm day where you feel like
having a fresh and frosty glass of mocktail (yes, it’s mocktail; it’s
non-alcoholic). I’m not referring to Cocktail here 😊…)
Anyways, She owned the room, the window, and the air itself. She took one look
at River Baby and decided: absolutely not. We tried a gentle introduction. We
tried neutral space. We tried “let’s just see.” But Lovey terrorized River
Baby. She didn’t just dislike him; she went for him with that fierce,
territorial lightning that only a small body full of confidence can carry.
River Baby, bless his stubborn little heart, still wanted to be near her. He’d
lean toward her cage and call softly. He’d watch her with this devotion that
actually made my chest ache. He wanted to belong. She wanted him gone.
Sometimes we would keep them both on the ground with the expectation that they
would happily play together, but NO, it kept ending with fights every single
time. It seemed like Lovey didn’t only dislike but hated the presence of River.
Lovey was always jealous whenever he saw us holding River and trying to pamper
him with care and affection. For Lovey, it was only his right, and we were
obliged to give all our love only to him.
So River Baby got his own cage. Set a bit away, where he
could see life passing by but not get ambushed by fire-breathing Lovey. I hated
that decision and loved it at the same time. Hated that it meant we were giving
up on the “best friends” dream, loved that at least he’d be safe. Every time I
reached in, River Baby dodged me. Every time I backed away, River Baby exhaled
and smoothed his feathers like he could finally breathe. I’d sit and talk to
him anyway—soft, silly things, the sort of nonsense you tell a baby when you’re
trying to make them laugh. He’d watch. He was always watching.
I wish the story paused there and gave us time. It didn’t.
One day, Lovey flew up and hit the fan. That sound—metal, wing, the snap of bad
luck—I swear I felt it in my teeth. We rushed. We cried. We did that messy
thing where you’re trying to be practical and your heart is just… burning.
Lovey survived, but not like before. Her foot was broken. Her movement changed.
The fire in her was still there, but now it flickered. I kept seeing her old
self trapped inside this new fragile body. It wrecked me.
And this is the part that still makes my throat tight: we
put River Baby into Lovey’s cage for company when we weren’t home, thinking
maybe another heartbeat would calm her. I was scared to do it—after
everything—but we did. And Lovey didn’t attack him this time. She let River
Baby be. Maybe pain softened the edges of her pride. Maybe she just couldn’t
fight. Maybe she recognized the one creature in the room who had always wanted
to be near her. River Baby stepped in with this quiet devotion that surprised me.
He would stay beside her. He would eat when she ate. He moved slower around
her, like he understood she was breakable now. When she rested, River Baby
stayed close, like a small, bright sentinel. For a few days, I felt like the
universe had let me glimpse what I wanted from the beginning: two birds not
fighting time, but sharing it.
But time had already made up its mind. Lovey didn’t make it
through the days after. My little child went out. There’s a particular silence
that follows a bird who owned the air, and our house was heavy with it. I
didn’t even try to be brave about it. I just cried. I cried and cried for
hours. It continued for days. But the ache would never fade with time. It was
not just us…. Our River Baby—my mango boy—went quiet in a way that wasn’t just
“calm.” He went still in that deep, inward way that grief looks like on a
creature that can’t speak our language. He sat fluffed, breathing that slow,
thin breath that makes you hover near the cage and count. He didn’t play. He
didn’t explore. He didn’t try. He just kept existing, and even that looked like
effort.
People don’t talk enough about birds grieving. They do. They
do it with their bodies. They do it with silence. River Baby loved Lovey. Even
when she was terrifying, he wanted her. When she was finally vulnerable enough
to let him close, he stayed. And then she was gone. Of course he broke.
But birds are built with this secret stubbornness. Weeks
passed. I didn’t push River Baby to be anything. I talked to him every day. I
opened the cage door and let the air be gentle. I put a chair near him and made
it my spot, like I was not leaving, like I would be there whether he needed me
or not. I kept treats nearby, millet that made a delicate shivering sound when
I moved it. I learned to measure progress in tiny, invisible centimeters.
First, River Baby would watch me without darting away. Then he would approach
the door when it was open, not to fly out, just to look. Then one day, he put
one foot on the perch nearest to my hand and just… stayed. I froze. I held my
breath until my head was going to explode, because if I even blinked wrong, I
felt like I’d lose the moment.
When River Baby finally touched my fingers with his beak, it
was like the world was nodding. Not a bite. Just a “what are you?” tap. The
kind of question that’s half brave, half scared. I whispered something
ridiculous like, “I’m your person,” because what else do you say when a tiny
mango touches your skin like that?
It took time, and that time was the point. We built a
language together. I learned to move slowly around the cage. I learned the
difference between his “I’m curious” posture and his “don’t even try it today”
posture. I learned the sound of contentment—beak grinding, that low little rasp
that means a bird is letting go. I learned that when River Baby wiped his beak
on the perch after eating, it wasn’t rude; it was just him being him. I learned
the happy tail flick that looks like a tiny wag. I learned that when choice is
offered repeatedly, choice eventually arrives.
I stopped grabbing River Baby to get him out. I stopped
treating “out of the cage” like a performance. Instead, I offered my hand like
a place. If he stepped up, we went. If he didn’t, we didn’t. Some days he
surprised me by stepping up and sitting like a king on my finger. Some days he
declined and just wanted to sit near the door, soaking in the world. Either
way, he was deciding. That changed everything. "Consent" sounds like
a big word for a small bird, but trust me, it lives in their bones.
Slowly, River Baby became brave enough to be gentle. He
started choosing my shoulder like it was his balcony. He’d sit there while I
made tea, while I answered messages, and while I stood by the window and
counted the afternoon quiet. Sometimes River Baby would make these soft little
talking sounds, like he was narrating my life in bird language. Sometimes he
said nothing at all, and that nothing felt like comfort. You know when you’re
with someone and you can just be? That was us. If I moved too fast, he’d lean
back, and I’d apologize out loud—yes, to a bird—because why not? Apologies are
free, and they matter. If I got it right, River Baby would relax and settle,
feathers lifting slightly, that melon-sweet posture of a creature at ease.
The first time River Baby bowed his head and let me scratch
was not cinematic. It wasn’t even planned. We were just sitting, and I put my
finger near his head and paused. He stayed. I moved a millimeter. He stayed. I
scratched lightly at the crown, that holy little spot. He exhaled, and his eyes
went soft, and I swear the room got warmer. If you know, you know. That tiny
surrender feels like a ceremony. He didn’t always ask for scratches after
that—River Baby is not the “demand head rubs” type—but now and then he’d angle
his head and I’d understand. Lovebirds don’t use words, but they speak.
And then came that day. I was sitting with River Baby on my
shoulder, talking nonsense, feeling the rhythm of his feet through my shirt. He
shifted, looked at me, and bobbed his head once, twice. I knew that motion too
well from watching lovebirds feed each other. I laughed and said, “No, River
Baby,” which is what I always say when I don’t want him to do a thing but I’m
secretly honored. He came closer anyway, with that look in his eye that’s both
ancient and tender. He made the feeding motion, and before I could say anything
else, River Baby gave me the gift lovebirds save for their chosen one. He
regurgitated and tried to feed me, like I was his whole reason for gathering
food in the first place.
I didn’t accept it, of course. But I accepted what it meant.
That day, the line between “human who feeds the bird” and “flockmate” vanished.
River Baby loved me already, but that was the day he told me in a language
nobody gets taught and everybody recognizes anyway: You’re mine.
People think lovebirds show affection only one way—kisses
and cuddles and singing your name. River Baby taught me that love looks
different in every beak. He is not a hair preener. He’s not big on serenades.
He doesn’t perform his feelings for strangers. But River Baby shows up. He sits
with me. He greets me with those giddy hops that make me laugh even on days I’m
too tired to talk to anyone. He grinds his beak near my ear in the evening,
making that sleepy gratitude sound. He reaches for me with one foot before he’s
even decided to step up. He tries to feed me, because in his brain that’s how
you say the most honest “I love you.” And you know what? I believe him. Fully.
Fiercely.
I think about Lovey often. How she loved in fire. How River
Baby loved her anyway. How in the end, when her strength was gone, she let him
near, and River Baby cared for her without asking for anything back. That’s
love too, the kind that doesn’t return on investment but keeps giving because
giving is the whole point. After she died, River Baby lost his map. I watched
him find a new one with us. He didn’t replace her; he grew bigger around the
empty space. He made room for memory and room for me. That’s what healing
actually looks like—never tidy, always true.
If you’re reading this because you also have a lovebird who
doesn’t follow the internet’s script, I want to tell you what River Baby told
me without words: stop keeping score. Stop waiting for your bird to love you in
the way that somebody else’s bird loves somebody else. Notice what your bird
actually gives. Maybe your bird sings like a little superstar. Maybe your bird
hates hands but will stand on your shoulder for hours. Maybe, like River Baby,
your bird thinks feeding you is the romantic apex of existence. All of it
counts. All of it is love in the alphabet they own.
I used to worry about time—about being out most of the day
and only having an hour for River Baby, about not being enough. But I learned
how much you can fit into an hour when you make it sacred. We try our rotate
his toys so life doesn’t go stale and try giving him the most time we can. I don’t
do it now, but I want to tuck treats inside paper cups and let River Baby tear
his way to treasure like a tiny pirate. I keep his cage where the life of the
house flows past—voices, footsteps, a little music—so silence never turns into
loneliness. I talk to him like he’s a person, like he is my own child because
in this house he is. I keep our rituals like promises: the hello when I walk
in, the shoulder time, and the soft goodnight when I drape his cage so he can
sleep without the world staring back. It’s not about hours. It’s about
attention that’s not split. When I’m with River Baby, I’m with River Baby. He
knows. He knows that he is pampered. I know he looks forward to spending time
with us because he knows the extent to which we love him. And genuine feelings
do not get unnoticed. That’s a true blessing indeed.
There’s this moment I love more than any other. It happens
right before dusk. The room cools. The light gets soft enough to touch without
burning. River Baby sits on the highest perch and watches the TV and the surroundings
like he’s reading the air. He does a big, luxurious stretch—wing and leg on one
side, then the other—his tiny yoga routine. Then he turns, looks at us, and
does a small tail flick like a comma, as if to say, “I’m not done with this
sentence.” And I think, neither do I. Me neither, River Baby.
If I could go back to the very first day and talk to the me
who was impatient and hopeful and a little naive, I’d say, “Let River Baby be
who he is.” Don’t try to fit a mango into a chili’s shadow. Let him run until
he doesn’t feel like running anymore. Sit by the cage. Talk about nothing.
Blink slowly. Celebrate every centimeter he chooses to cross. One day he will
step onto your hand like it was always meant for him. One day he will try to
feed you like you were always meant for him. And you will know that love
doesn’t need proof in capital letters. It needs presence. It needs patience. It
needs time.
River Baby didn’t come to us to be Lovey’s friend. That’s
what I thought. But maybe River Baby came to us to teach me that love isn’t a
template; it’s a translation. You learn it by listening. You learn it by
staying. You learn it by continuing to show up even when your heart is a little
broken and your hands are a little clumsy and your plans fall apart in the
shape of a ceiling fan. You learn it when a small, mango-colored life climbs
onto your shoulder and decides you are home.
He still looks like a mango. He still glows when the light
hits him just right. Indeed he is not less than a delicious fruit, a delicious
Mango with a heart. On some evenings he hums a tiny sound that isn’t quite a
song and isn’t quite silence. On some mornings he presses his little feet into
my collarbone like he’s anchoring me to the day. He doesn’t groom my hair. He
doesn’t stage a concert. He loves me the way River Baby loves, and that is more
than enough. It’s not the version I asked for in the beginning, but it’s the
one I needed. It’s ours. And when he leans in with that ancient, ridiculous,
tender instinct to feed me, I laugh, and I thank him, and I know I’ve been
chosen—by a bird who once ran to the farthest corner and now runs to me.
That’s the whole story. It’s messy and warm and a little
dramatic and completely true. If you’re standing at a cage right now with a
bird who won’t let you in, you’re not failing. You’re at the beginning of a
very long sentence that is going to turn into a paragraph and then a chapter
and then a life. Take a deep breath. Offer your hand like a place, not a trap.
Let them decide. And when they do—when your own small mango or chili or
blueberry of a bird looks at you and steps across that invisible line—you will
feel your heart adjust its size to fit them, forever.