Free Flight

By Arlene L. Mandell

The whole family was crammed into the kitchen, where the spicy spaghetti and meatballs made us sweat. Ricky, my parakeet, was eating, too, stepping onto his platform with a seed, dropping the husk on the floor, then cocking his yellow head at my mother.

"Look at the mess you're making on my floor," she scolded. He imitated her, bobbing his head up and down and making a gurgling sound in his throat. I looked away and tried not to laugh.

Then Daddy said, "Don't make any sudden moves. Ricky is outside." And there he was — on the outside of our kitchen window looking in, his claws gripping the half screen. Someone hadn't pulled the window down to meet the top of the screen.

"Walk slowly to the window," he said. "When I slide it up, put out your finger."

The last meatball stuck in my throat. The sweat soaked into the waistband of my shorts as I cooed, "Come here, little one." He started to flap his wings, but then out of habit, he cocked his head and hopped back inside.

Later I realized Ricky could've been free to soar over the dusty trees and leave Brooklyn, or he could've flown to the tropical forest where his ancestors came from. And he could have lived in a palm tree instead of a cage. But he chose to live safely in our three-room apartment for the rest of his life. He never did learn to talk.

My departure was different. I began slipping away, first through daydreams, then Russian novels. When I left Brooklyn at sixteen, I never tried to come back.