Tomorrow we leave. Tomorrow we head back to Rome. I have no desire to go—not after these beautiful days.
It's very late. But before bed, I slip out to the garden to catch the cool night air, the silence and sounds and smells of the countryside.
My friends are all asleep now, but I know that in some rooms, voices low, they're whispering their last thoughts, stifling laughter, trying to stay awake so as not to lose a single moment of this holiday. My friends...
I sit on a bench, stretch my legs, and lean my head against the stone wall, which slowly releases the warmth of the day's sun. In my mind a picture forms—a hundred images, each beside the other. So many fragments of what we lived through during this camp.
A picture made of a hundred images, each beside the other: so many fragments of what we lived through
Un quadro fatto di cento immagini, una vicina all'altra: tanti frammenti di quel che abbiamo vissutoThe day we arrived, hot and tired after three or four hours on the road, worried the minibus wouldn't show up—it had broken down on the highway.
The first circle, after breakfast: the songbooks had stayed in Rome, but we sang beautifully anyway. Someone knew the words by heart. Someone else scribbled them onto loose sheets. The boldest of us tried to guess the next line. Everyone made the gestures. As the days went on, we chose more and more songs you could mime. Michelina, quick enough at other things, has a serious hearing loss, and during the circles she risked being left out. But she watched our faces, helped by her hearing aid, rested her hand on the guitar's body, followed our gestures—and ended up humming along with us, full of joy. And then the other days.
Water games to cool off and have fun, even better when Pablo and Annarita shook off our worries and hesitation and showed us they wanted to join in the water-balloon fight too. Their happiness was worth wet clothes and a wheelchair drying in the sun.
And Stefano, always anxious about changes to his routine—by the fourth day he showed us he felt at home with us. He went to the kitchen on his own to ask for a drink.
Davide, whose body cannot see, cannot walk, cannot speak, was always calm and smiling. He let himself be touched and held even by friends who barely knew him—he who had often defended his solitude and peace, sometimes fiercely. But stretched out on his mat, I watched him play with Chiara and Roberta while Simone failed, again, to get him to shift position so he wouldn't get sunburned on just one side.
And Patrizia, who earned applause from all of us for how well she rides, and Michela, eager to walk down to the river and throw stones in the water—with both hands free now. She had let go of that annoying photograph she used to hold constantly, that pointless repetitive gesture of bringing it to her eye.
And then Flaminia, so quiet and gentle, often invited us onto her towel, sharing all her toys and those big blue eyes of hers.
We never did anything extraordinary those days: some drawings, lots of singing, a swim in the river, a few lopsided clay pots, pizza from a wood-fired oven, a tour of the wine cellars to see how wine is made, and then, the last evening, dressed up, the big dance, and dinner with tables around the fire under a sky turning pink, then purple, then black.
Evening and then night—these were powerful moments too.
I remember Vincenza in the kitchen, wrapping ice in a dish towel to treat a bump on her head. Michela, going to bed, had knocked over an empty wardrobe onto her roommates. Upstairs, Patrizia and Annarita, after their friends left, chatted like old acquaintances before falling asleep. Meanwhile Michelina was arguing, in her way, with Serena because she'd forgotten to call her mother—it was past eleven but she absolutely had to call her.
In another room, Pablo, knowing full well we wouldn't go to sleep right away, said goodnight and asked us to say hello to all his friends. Later, from the garden, we heard him telling Stefano, his roommate, about the day.
A camp is not only this, but it is also this. The rest stays in the heart and cannot be said
Un campeggio non è solo questo ma è anche questo. Il più resta nel cuore e non si riesce a direNow I really must sleep: tomorrow will be exhausting. I thank God for these ten days, and switching off my flashlight under the bed, I fall asleep thinking about when the photographer will send back the slides.
A camp is not only this, but it is also this. The rest stays in the heart and cannot be said.
In fact, it is Faith and Light, nothing more: lived day and night.
- N.B., 1990