10/17/2026
A letter from your newly adopted bird. "The things I wish you knew" 5
Dear you,
I don't know what to call you yet. You'll give me a name, I think. I'll answer to it eventually. Give me a few weeks.
Here is what I remember. A room with the television always on. A hand that came in on Sundays to change the water. I was there four years and I was fine, mostly. Then the boxes came out and the room got smaller and smaller, and one morning the cage went into the back of a car and I did not come home.
I don't hold it against them. People run out of room. I've heard it said that way. I only tell you because you should know I can count, and I counted the days.
At the rescue (they called it Nest2Nest) there were several of us. Some had been there longer than me. It was loud at times but it was not unkind. I learned to sleep with one foot up again. I stopped flinching when the door opened. That took a while.
Then you came. I noticed you didn't stare. People stare at birds like we're a picture. You sat down and talked about nothing for twenty minutes, and when you left you said you'd come back. I didn't believe you. I've been told that before.
You came back.
What I want you to know about adoption is that it isn't the day you take me home. That's just the car ride. Adoption is the morning I come out of the cage on my own. It's the evening you notice I've gone quiet and you turn the music down. It's the seed you keep in the same bowl, at the same time, because you learned I like knowing what comes next. It's you learning my sounds. I'm already learning yours.
I'm going to be loud at sunrise. I'm going to chew the curtain. I'll probably learn one phrase and say it forever, and it will be something you said when you thought I wasn't listening.
Thank you for the room. I'll try to be worth it.
Yours, for good this time