|Ottmar Alberto De Anda|

La Guacamaya

I was raised in the tropics, where the guacamaya flew wild—flocks of twenty, thirty, perhaps fifty or more.
Innumerable to my young eyes, they roamed the skies with the freedom only their hearts could command.
A living mosaic of the most vibrant plumage imaginable:
The reddest reds, the bluest blues, yellows so incendiary my eyes have yet to encounter their equal.

They were my morning wake-up call—a deafening cacophony in stark contrast to their beauty and majesty.
At home, they perched in the Araguaney and Ceiba trees;
At school, they gathered in the Apamate and Samán trees along the periphery,
Perhaps intrigued by the innocence and chaos of us children at play—
Children of privilege, unbound potential, and opportunity,
In a city overshadowed by poverty and despair.

They bore witness to my growth—from a sickly, premature boy to a rebellious adolescent.
I am filled with nostalgia now, and regret:
Regret for the times I found myself annoyed by their raucous calls,
Their songs heralding the rise of our life-giving star.
Regret that I did not know to cherish their presence,
Unaware that leaving those lands would mean their songs would no longer wake me again.

It’s curious, isn’t it? The things we miss once they fade from our daily lives.
It makes me want to treasure what is here, now—
People, places, animals, even fleeting emotions—
For one day, they may exist only in dreams and memories.

Here she flies in the dark (though in life, they are birds of the day),
Because now, the only place I can hear their songs,
The only place I can witness their vibrant flocks,
Is in the shadows of memory.

A la guacamaya majestuosa, te extraño y te amo.
I hope one day to see your flight again,
To marvel at your plumage,
To hear your call
piercing, defiant, alive.

___Acrylic and oil paint, colored pencil and crayon on white oak plywood.__