A few evenings ago, I was at a pizzeria with the Fede e Luce group I've been part of for many years.
I watched them—these young people, no longer young; six of them over forty, the rest past thirty.
Some have lost their parents. Most live with their mother alone, a widow now, elderly, worn down by age, exhausted.
They settled at the tables with the appetite of teenagers, their faces lit by a joy that never fades when they're together, facing a bruschetta and a pizza.
I watched them and saw Carlo again in short pants, going—he was one of the first—to the school in my neighborhood. I thought of Gianni, dressed all in blue, twelve years old, beside his father in church, the day after his first communion.
Now that they are adults, I feel them closer than ever before
Now that they are adults, I feel them closer than ever beforeThis group formed around them, my daughter's first companions.
I watched them argue over Coke and pastries, surrounded by their few remaining friends. These friends, worn out from a day of work or study, were there—faithful in their tested friendship.
Now that they are adults, I feel them closer than ever before. The way they behave, still childlike in some ways, fills me with a tenderness I didn't know before. I want to draw them out, to hear about their lives, how they spend their days, what they struggle with. It seems they deserve that.
So the pizzeria became a family table. Everyone spoke up. Nella was angry because the director of the center she's attended for a few months had thrown her out. "She scolded me because I didn't want to work!" A chorus of laughter greeted her words. We know Nella and her fierce protests and the insults that go with them. I hope it's only temporary suspension, I thought to myself, when she adds: "Now I argue with Mom all day!" Carlo works at the bar in the police club. He was eager to tell us that he doesn't just clean anymore—he also works behind the bar, where he knows how to make coffee, cappuccino, tea... Applause from everyone. And he adds sadly: "But Mom is in the hospital...".
Viviana lives in a group home called Il Carro. A baby girl was born not long ago to the people who run the house. And everyone asks her: "Come on, is Maria pretty? Do you spend time with her?" "She's good, she's cute, sometimes she cries, but not much...".
We'd finished our pizzas when I noticed everyone's eyes were asking for dessert, which wasn't in the budget. In honor of Maria, we ordered gelato for everyone. While they tasted truffles and sorbets, Daniele, the youngest of us, picked up the conversation. He's finishing hotel school. "I did an internship at the Parco dei Principi hotel. A loud "oh!" of admiration from everyone. "What did they have you do?" "I prepared parsley!" "With a machine!" I say mischievously. "No! With a knife on a cutting board!".
Stefania interrupts Daniele, who was going on about his quick steps toward a future as a man who will earn lots of money and be able to get married. "Me, me, I do lots of things: I go to school, then swimming, style... what's it called, Mom?" "No hints. You find the name of the stroke yourself." "Style, style, that's how you do it!" She stood up and in the middle of the room, she flaps her arms... "Freestyle!" "No, no! It's called... backstroke!" More applause.
One by one, everyone shared their activities, hobbies, recent news, some sorrow accompanied by a "little complaint," some joy different from the usual.
It was getting late. Time to leave the pizzeria and go home. Outside it was drizzling. Everyone chose a friend who would drive them home. As I said goodbye, I saw that the evening together had refreshed them: smiling faces wished each other good night, with an air of grown people who had been heard and encouraged, who had their say.
For them, as for us, this matters so much.
- Mariangela Bettolini, 1996