When Matteo called to tell us that Pablo could move into Il Carro, it felt like confirmation that we were part of a larger family, that we weren't alone. Help was finally coming—help we'd always dreamed of, the answer to what would happen when we were no longer here.
But the news caught me unprepared. Something like an earthquake was shaking every certainty I held. My mind raced through possible solutions, even refusals. I was afraid.
Then I remembered something from years ago, when I first left Pablo with friends from Faith and Light, people I'd just met, and I did so with trust. My heart advised me; instinct said trust them. And it was right. Our journey together continues still, thirty years later. Pablo has grown steadily. His friends have helped shape his character—full of joy, full of will to do, despite his fairly severe disability. That help has reached me too. Every person in Faith and Light has given me a part of themselves, helping me strengthen my path toward others, not stopping at how things appear but discovering the most beautiful part in each of us. So I decided to test the waters and put a proposal to Pablo, just to see his reaction. When I told him, his eyes lit up and with an unstoppable smile he said: "When?" One more confirmation of how much he cared about his friends, how much he wanted to escape his house, to do new things with different people. My thoughts turned upward to God. Lord, when darkness comes, when we're overwhelmed by situations we can't bear, you let us feel your protection, your presence. Once again you're showing us the way. I ask you still: help me bring out all my strength for this important step. Help me, please, to trust the others who will care for him. Thank you.
I packed his suitcase carefully, as if with each piece of his clothing I was putting away everything that Pablo means to me.
Pablo, who at his birth had shattered all my joy in living, and who now, as an adult, is giving me the chance to take stock of my own life. I have more time now to think about myself; people tell me, "Do what you love," but I don't know what I love most. I realize I've lived entirely for him. He, by imposing on me a life of constant struggle, has shaped me, smoothed away all the rough edges of my character, and now he's telling me to walk alone. Am I capable of that?
About eight months have passed. When he comes home every two weeks, it's a great celebration. He shows me all his joy at seeing me, embraces me tight, kisses me, tells me he's missed me and that he loves me. He's becoming more aware of himself. There are small changes that for him are enormous: he eats in silence, stays longer with me in the kitchen without rushing off to watch his videos; and more than anything, when he coughs, he puts his hand over his mouth without my telling him to.
I'm changing too. I'm paying more attention to my own needs, to the small things that make an existence into a life. I'm learning. In the evenings when Gerardo and I have dinner alone, we're trying to rebuild that conversation we've had to silence too many times, the silence that's pulled us apart. We're trying to recover. All of this is thanks to Ivana and Matteo, to everyone at Il Carro who does their work with love and responsibility.
But inside me I've started waiting for Pablo from Monday morning, when the van comes to pick him up for school and brings him home again after two weeks.
Rita Ozzimo, 2007