Do you remember? You were seven or eight when you arrived in Bari with your family. Your father's work kept forcing you to move. Now you were back in Bari, and I, your godmother, was happy to have you near. But you lived far away—we saw each other only on holidays. What I remember from those years were your dark eyes, wide with curiosity and hunger for affection. I remember you being hushed whenever you started to speak. Your way of expressing yourself was hard to understand, and it came in urgent rushes. Something was clearly wrong. I talked to your mother about it. She agreed to take you to a therapist. After a few visits, she stopped. School had discovered you had significant hearing loss, and your "oddities" were blamed on that. You had surgery. But your problems remained.
You were already sixteen when I suddenly found you near my house. That same bewildered look. Those same eyes that spoke and asked. You were living in a small apartment not far from me, with your sister, who had started working. I came to visit. The place was in indescribable chaos. Your sister was out all day. You left early each morning for a distant school and came home at three to an empty house. I remember seeing you a bit breathless, ironing some shirts, and noticing in the corner a long woolen scarf, all tangled, that you were working on. You asked me for wool in different colors.
From that day on, you came to my house with some regularity. I waited for you at any time. You would come, have a snack, and talk. Talk, talk, talk. It wasn't easy to understand you—you said too much and never finished anything. You told me about your suffering.
Sometimes we walked along the waterfront. Unknown ships passed on the horizon, and from a distance they seemed like so many question marks—the same ones that filled our hearts.
That was the true beginning of our friendship. Through the way you behaved and reacted, I seemed to understand what you needed: calm, gentleness, patience. You taught me small gestures of affection. You wanted me to stay by the elevator, not to go back inside right away after saying goodbye. Then you would leave happy with that last kindness, calling to me and waving as the elevator took you down. You taught me that when you give time to someone, you give it completely, not absentmindedly. What was simple for you was a complication for me, always rushing. You forced me to slow down, to pay attention. I am grateful for that.
Were there difficulties, little friend? Yes, there were. Because you, in your way, consumed me. Your words, so necessary for you, filled me, infected me, swept me away. Your need to talk about yourself, to make everything about your needs—beyond the hours I gave you—would have destroyed me. That's why I think so often, with particular tenderness, of your family. They welcomed you with such joy when you were born, and then felt wounded, blamed, and transformed by your illness and what it brought.
Then you began to talk with everyone—the doormen on the street, strangers you met who would listen. You fell in love constantly with men you'd exchanged only a few words with. There were some dramatic and painful episodes. Your behavior led you toward serious danger.
That's when you met the friends of Fede e Luce. They became your anchor. They sought you out and waited for you, even when your restlessness pulled you in other directions. They are still your best friends today.
When you were about twenty, you decided on your own to start therapy with a psychologist at the health center. He still sees you now. This was certainly good for you. You've made some progress, you express yourself better, and you've begun, in your own way, to manage your life.
Your parents took you out of high school, where you were struggling more and more. You went to a vocational training institute, some supported workshops, spent a few months in a group home. But soon after starting each of these experiences, you abandoned them all—a wrong word, a rude gesture, an environment you didn't like—and you broke off the relationship. No one came after you asking you to come back.
Maybe you wanted too much. Maybe there was a restlessness in you that drained your strength too quickly. I don't know. The fact is, you're thirty now. You're still waiting to find work. You're still waiting for the man of your life. You run errands for your mother, walk the dog, spend hours in your room listening to music and watching telenovelas on TV.
You've been recognized as 50 percent disabled. That was at least a moment of clarity. Your family understood that you need protection, and that even though you're often demanding and self-centered, you need to be understood. But how far should we go in protecting, understanding, and accepting? How can we help you finish what you start? How can we keep you from giving up when you face difficulty? How can we help you build a satisfying life? In what ways? With whose help? That is our problem and our responsibility.
- Francesca Rota, 1998