Three years after my husband died, my son and I were moving out of our house. The night before we finally left, a white finch flew into the house through the open front doors. My son caught it and brought it to me.

It looked so little in my hand and it stayed very quiet with its eyes closed. I knew that if I let it go it wouldn’t survive, so I decided to keep it. That was more than nine years ago.

The white finch is still healthy and is now enjoying the company of a female finch. Although he hasn’t succeeded in fertilizing any eggs, he keeps busy building nests. A nest building activity that keeps him busy is tearing off pieces of the newspaper that lines the cage. One time he pulled so hard, he lifted himself along with the newspaper. I truly enjoy watching his activities, as well as that of the female.

I always remember he flew into the house that I had shared for so many years with my son and late husband. And what I find fascinating is that I recently found a childhood photo album belonging to my late husband. In there was a photograph of him reclining with a little white bird perched on his chin…it looked like a finch.

Article © Elizabeth Tambara 2002