As a young girl of seven, I traveled with my parents to Perugia, Italy. One afternoon while my mom was busy, my dad and I took a walk to the piazza. Most days vendors were set up, selling delicious food, showing off their beautiful craftsmanship. I looked forward to soaking up the chaotic atmosphere. On this particular afternoon, in addition to the numerous vendors lining the paved center, a parade was meandering through the crowd of ravenous customers.

   Dad was wearing his favorite pine scent cologne. I loved that smell. He was holding my hand so tightly that I almost complained. The discomfort was quickly forgotten, however, as I was easily distracted by the colorful costumes and the persistence of the drum beat coming from the musicians. So caught up in the commotion, I hadn't noticed that the pressure encircling my hand was gone. I turned to point out something to my father and realized he was no longer beside me.

   As the panic began to build, I frantically looked around trying to spot my father's handsome face and red hair. I felt utter terror in that moment. With tears threatening to fall from my eyes, I felt like a prisoner in the massive crowd, unable to move of my own accord, but swiftly being transported along the road like a leaf being carried along the current of a river. Shorter than most everyone around me, I couldn't see much of anything besides body parts, and even those became a blur as the tears could no longer be held back. The body parts began attacking me, first an elbow to my head, then a shoe stepping on my heel, and finally hands shoving me so hard I almost fell on the boy shuffling along in front of me. Just when I thought I would forever be lost in the mob, or worse, trampled to death, a small break in the crowd appeared to my right.

   My green eyes were instantly drawn to a brightly colored parrot, perched on a cage. I remembered him from a previous visit. He was the pet of a vendor who sold persimmons. Before I lost my one chance at freedom, I dove through the space created and found myself face to face with the parrot. He was staring at me with his tiny eyes, blinking every few seconds. As I stared back, he tilted his head to the side, as though asking if I was all right. I wiped the tears from my face with the backs of my hands and sniffed a few times to prevent my nose from running. 

   Something about the parrot calmed me down. Now that I had escaped the throng of people and my premature death, I felt a bit less anxious, less scared. The parrot's owner glanced over to where I was standing and asked me something in Italian. I could tell it was a question because of the intonation he used and the shrug of his shoulders and raised hands.

   "Non parlo Italiano," I said. That was one of the only phrases I had picked up during our short time in Italy.

   In broken English he responded, "You want feed bird?" When I nodded, he handed me a piece of mango. He showed me how to lay my hand out flat, with the mango resting on it. As I did so, the parrot gingerly reached down with his beak and picked up the fruit. A smile instantly made its way to my lips. 

   Placing my red hair behind my ear, I quietly asked the vendor, "What's his name?" 

   "Amico," he said.

   "Amico," I whispered. I wanted to reach out and gently touch the top of his head, stroke his strong, hard beak, but I was too scared that he might bite me. As my hand wavered back and forth between reaching out and falling back to my side, I faintly heard my name being called.

   "Astrid!" The voice was louder now and I recognized it as my father's. I turned around, searching for him in the sea of faces. While I'd been distracted by Amico, the parade had passed, and the amount of people in the piazza had returned to normal. There he was, running towards me, with arms outstretched. As I fell into his embrace, I began crying again, this time from relief. I could feel his body trembling as he held me tightly, planting kisses all along my cheek and neck. I remember vividly how he smelled. His cologne and its warm, woodsy aroma brought a deep connection to my soul. There was no other place I wanted to be than in my father's safe arms.

   That was our last family vacation. A year later, my father died. It is a bittersweet memory that returns to my dreams and sometimes makes me feel like a visit from Dad to comfort me. But oftentimes I awake drenched in sweat still remembering the terror I felt as a child and have to grapple with the fact that he will never return to me.