Sam
died 14 years ago … this week. I still miss him and think of him
often. He was a loving, devoted companion and not hearing his cheery
“Good Morning”, sometimes leaves a noticeable empty spot in the
sleepy song of sunrise.
The
day Sam died I knew something was different the minute I came
downstairs and saw him sitting precariously in the dark, his head
lilting oddly to one side, as if it was too heavy for him to hold up
anymore. His eyes were scrunched closed and he was breathing
irregularly. Afraid to touch him and disturb his reverie, I just
stood by his side and whispered my love. I told him that if he
needed to go, that it was
okay, that I would understand and I didn't want him to be in pain
anymore. He'd had trouble standing for awhile and had fallen down
over and over. Heartbreaking to witness. We both knew something was
terribly wrong. He never complained, just struggled to get up and
push on, no doubt afraid to leave me alone or to cause commotion.
Life
with Sam was beautiful. Always happy, often whistling, he talked a
lot, even during my favorite television shows, and mimicked me or
actors or anyone he ever heard, if the voice appealed to his ears.
Everyday included an “I love you”, or “give me a kiss”, or
any of a number of his adorable affectionate sayings. When I'd
write, he'd playfully try to grab my pen. When I ate cereal, he'd
ask “What'cha eating?”, even though he could clearly see into my
bowl. Even his annoyances made me laugh in their cuteness. Sam
didn't ask for much, just companionship and love. A perfect partner.
As
he got arthritis in his legs, I made adjustments around the house for
his comfort. Age creeps up slowly, then suddenly for us all. The
accompanying frailty is inevitable. Nevertheless, it is difficult to
witness. Sam slept more and more and moved with caution, obviously
fearful to slip and fall yet again.
Our
connection was notable in the soul-to-soul communication. We didn't
need to talk to understand each other. It was evident in his eyes
what he wanted and he always looked directly into mine. Unusual in
its depth, I always marveled at this soul level spirit to spirit
knowing, this wonderful and amazing exchange of two beings
that needed, depended, and truly recognized each other in
unconditional love. Everyone wants this – few are lucky enough to
experience it. Sam taught me so much. He was a rare bird.
I
said goodbye that fateful morning, and went off about my day. I
don't know exactly how I knew, but when I returned and opened
the door, sure enough, there he was...dead. Gone. I wailed aloud.
And for a long time. Gut wrenching pain. Tinged with guilt that I
hadn't stayed home that day. But maybe he waited for me to leave
before he himself left. I don't know. Incoherent thoughts plague
such moments. No matter – Sam had died. No more pain for him.
And he knew I loved him. That was all that was important.
I
tenderly and lovingly buried him in a special spot in my backyard. A
place in the shade where pretty flowers bloom with a patch of
spearmint each spring. A place where I could stand and remember the
joy Sam brought to me for 13 years.
Yes,
Sam was a rare bird. Of a different feather, as the saying goes.
Didn't I mention that? A parakeet. A store bought wonder. Because
he talked. And most parakeets don't do that. And he lived 13 years.
Most parakeets don't do that either. But Sam was a happy bird. He
didn't want to leave.
Sam
taught me the valuable lesson about souls. That ALL living things
have a soul. That communication is not unique to people. That love
is possible wherever there is life, and spirit, and the will to bond
with another – even between species.
I
miss the soul of Sam. His essence remains within my heart, a heart
he touched endlessly. I still listen to tapes I made of his rambling
chatter, so I would not forget what he sounded like. I still ring
his little bell that he obsessively clanged everyday.
And
'somewhere over the rainbow...' Sam-bird flies.
