Pip

My little Pip was the heartbeat of our mountain village home. He was a true clown, always hanging upside down from his perch just to hear me laugh, waiting for his captive audience to clap. He had a signature whistle that echoed through the valley, signaling that he was ready for his morning slice of apple. I miss the way he would fluff his bright feathers and chatter incessantly whenever I walked through the door. His life was far too short, taken by a sudden illness that stole his vibrant energy in just a few days. The house feels impossibly quiet now without the constant rustle of wings and his silly, raspy greetings. I keep expecting to hear his bell ring from the kitchen, but the silence is heavy. You were my tiny, sun-bright companion, and the mountain air feels a little colder without your joy to warm it.