We rarely notice it, but often what transforms our lives is not events—it's the people we meet.
You asked me, Silvia, to write something about our friendship: you, me, Andrea your brother, and Cristina, who is now my wife.
I didn't want to write anything, honestly, because I feel guilty toward you and your parents. It's been so long since I've been in touch. Since you moved, I haven't come to visit. Thank goodness Cristina keeps the connection alive. I feel like I've abandoned you all, in a way. But many memories are still vivid, and with your permission, I want to call back a few of them.
Small things come to mind. My initial discomfort in the face of the harsh reality your parents lived with such dignity and without a trace of self-pity. I often felt helpless, at a loss for words, preparing myself before coming to see you. That's partly why I always tried to bring someone with me—first my cousin Elisabetta, then Cristina. But I knew it mattered to come, to be there, even with my initial shyness. And Nadia and Giulio, your parents, were always wonderful at putting us at ease, asking about our lives, teasing us a little, talking about the news of the day.
In truth, I never did anything grand with you: a few hours of babysitting, earning your trust so your parents could take their time shopping at a department store; offering my amateur photography skills for a portrait to put on documents. It would have been complicated to take you for a standard passport photo, and would a professional photographer really have captured the light in Andrea's eyes or the strength in your smile? Or would his lens have stopped short, fixing only on the irregularities of your face?
I remember one or two evenings—not many—when we managed to convince your parents to eat pizza with us there at your house. Nothing special, really.
But that's not what I want to talk about. Rather, I want to remember your parents, you, Andrea. The sharp, deep, relentless pain when Andrea, far too young, left us. Or your eyes looking up at me, and me speaking to you, convinced you could understand, even though you never answered.
The anger your parents accumulated over so many years, anger that would sometimes rightfully erupt after a careless word or gesture from a friend or relative.
The strength and persistence and at the same time the gentleness and devotion in caring for two adolescent children as if they were newborns, tending to their every need.
Coming into contact with that reality and the questions it raises. Accepting the possibility that there may be no answers to those questions. Wondering if suffering has any meaning. Recognizing the importance of life, regardless.
Often what transforms our lives is not events—it's the people we meet. Sometimes those meetings become events themselves.
Nanni, 2002
