Slinger Fran­cis­co, the Mighty Spar­row, af­fec­tion­ate­ly known through­out the ca­lyp­so fra­ter­ni­ty and around the world as “The Birdie”, was much more than a ca­lyp­son­ian.

He was a po­et, philoso­pher, prophet, mes­sen­ger, co­me­di­an, so­cial com­men­ta­tor, show­man and en­ter­tain­er. Above all, he was a voice: one that spoke to pres­i­dents and prime min­is­ters, kings and queens, the pow­er­ful and the pow­er­less.

Through his mu­sic, Spar­row doc­u­ment­ed our so­ci­ety, chal­lenged our think­ing, en­ter­tained gen­er­a­tions and left a cul­tur­al archive that will out­live many of us.

Now that he has passed, trib­utes have be­gun, and right­ly so. His songs are be­ing played, his name in­voked and his con­tri­bu­tion to Trinidad and To­ba­go and the world cel­e­brat­ed. He de­serves every bit of that recog­ni­tion.

But per­mit me to ask an un­com­fort­able ques­tion: Where were we when the Birdie need­ed us most?

This is not an ac­cu­sa­tion against any one per­son or or­gan­i­sa­tion. It is a ques­tion for all of us, be­cause there is some­thing trou­bling about the way we some­times treat our he­roes.

When they are on stage, we ap­plaud. When they are win­ning, we cel­e­brate. When they per­form, score goals or car­ry our na­tion­al flag across the world, we proud­ly claim them as our own.

But what hap­pens when the lights go out? When age catch­es up with them, ill­ness takes their strength and mo­bil­i­ty, or a once-pow­er­ful per­former be­comes frail and de­pen­dent?

Too of­ten, the ap­plause be­comes si­lence. The crowds dis­ap­pear. The tele­phone stops ring­ing. Some he­roes face their twi­light years with far less sup­port than their con­tri­bu­tions should war­rant.

Many of us re­dis­cov­er them on­ly af­ter they die. Then come the trib­utes, archival search­es, old pho­tographs and per­for­mances. We tell the na­tion what an icon, a leg­end, a pil­lar of our cul­ture they were.

In­deed, they were. But per­haps the greater trib­ute would have been to tell them while they were alive.

We could have vis­it­ed, called, sat be­side them and asked what they need­ed. We could have helped en­sure they had ap­pro­pri­ate med­ical care and that their fam­i­lies were not left to car­ry an un­bear­able bur­den alone. Those who gave so much to this coun­try should not have to won­der whether it has for­got­ten them.

Over the years, I have heard sto­ries of en­ter­tain­ers, ca­lyp­so­ni­ans, pan­men, mas­men, mu­si­cians, ath­letes and oth­er na­tion­al con­trib­u­tors strug­gling in their lat­er years. Some re­ceived as­sis­tance from fam­i­ly, or­gan­i­sa­tions or pri­vate gen­eros­i­ty. But in too many cas­es, it was not enough.

This can­not sim­ply be about Spar­row. His pass­ing should be a cat­a­lyst for some­thing big­ger. Trinidad and To­ba­go should con­sid­er a Na­tion­al He­roes Care and Sup­port Ini­tia­tive, in­volv­ing the State, busi­ness­es, cul­tur­al and sport­ing or­gan­i­sa­tions, foun­da­tions and pri­vate phil­an­thropists.

I am not talk­ing about an­oth­er plaque, award, cer­e­mo­ny or street name. I mean tan­gi­ble sup­port: a struc­tured med­ical and so­cial-care pro­gramme for age­ing and vul­ner­a­ble cul­tur­al and sport­ing icons. It could pro­vide med­ical care, re­ha­bil­i­ta­tion, coun­selling, home-care sup­port, pal­lia­tive care where nec­es­sary, so­cial as­sis­tance and help for fam­i­lies.

The sys­tem should iden­ti­fy na­tion­al con­trib­u­tors be­fore a cri­sis strikes, not wait un­til some­one is ter­mi­nal­ly ill and the na­tion dis­cov­ers that a hero is in trou­ble. For­mer ca­lyp­so­ni­ans, mu­si­cians, ath­letes and oth­er recog­nised con­trib­u­tors should know there is some­where to turn as they grow old­er.

Our na­tion­al he­roes should not have to be­come na­tion­al emer­gen­cies be­fore we re­spond.

They al­so car­ry his­to­ry. Their sto­ries are liv­ing archives. Spar­row did not sim­ply sing songs; he chron­i­cled Trinidad and To­ba­go. Our sports­men and women car­ried the na­tion­al colours to places many of us may nev­er reach. Our artistes helped shape the iden­ti­ty we proud­ly present to the world.

When they dis­ap­pear, we lose more than in­di­vid­u­als. We lose liv­ing li­braries. Car­ing for them in their lat­er years is not char­i­ty. It is grat­i­tude, na­tion­al re­spon­si­bil­i­ty and a way of pre­serv­ing our her­itage.

So let us cel­e­brate the Mighty Spar­row. Let us play the songs, tell the sto­ries, laugh again at the wit and re­mem­ber the so­cial com­men­tary. Let us ho­n­our the man who stood be­fore pres­i­dents, kings and queens, yet con­tin­ued to sing to or­di­nary peo­ple.

But when the fi­nal trib­ute is de­liv­ered and the mi­cro­phones are packed away, let us not let the les­son dis­ap­pear with it. Some­where tonight, there may be an­oth­er Spar­row: an ath­lete, mu­si­cian or cul­tur­al icon who once made an en­tire na­tion cheer, now fight­ing ill­ness or strug­gling fi­nan­cial­ly, emo­tion­al­ly or phys­i­cal­ly, and won­der­ing whether any­one still re­mem­bers.

Let us re­mem­ber them while they can hear us, ho­n­our them while they can feel our em­brace and care for them while they are still with us. If we wait un­til the fu­ner­al to show our grat­i­tude, per­haps we have mis­un­der­stood what grat­i­tude means.

As I close this week’s re­flec­tion, I re­turn to the Birdie’s own im­mor­tal ques­tion: “We Like It So?”

Per­haps Spar­row left us more than mu­sic. Per­haps he left us a mir­ror. If we are hon­est enough to look in­to it, we may dis­cov­er that Trinidad and To­ba­go must do bet­ter—not just for the Birdie, but for all our birds.

When they can no longer fly, we should be the wings that car­ry them home.