I want to set down on these pages a memory of Claudio, a distant cousin who died in January. I knew very little about him—it would be far more fitting for his brother Gabriele and Gabriele's wife Maria to speak of him. They lived beside him all those years and cared for him, especially in recent times.
Claudio was sixty-eight, a man with mild disabilities who filled not just his house—where he lived his whole life with his parents and siblings—but the streets and the piazza of his small town in the Euganean Hills. He held a place of honor at home; I remember his parents tending to him with such care and love, giving him what autonomy he could have, even if limited, and freedom to pursue his passions. He threw himself into these interests so completely that he never stopped talking about them.
He loved canaries. For years he kept them, and woe to anyone who approached, woe if his mother mentioned giving them away or letting them go, woe if you asked him to give you one. His room was his kingdom: a tape recorder and countless cassettes—I never saw them, but from what his mother said there were stacks of them. I remember him most in recent years with his mother; he no longer worked, so he was home all day. He complained constantly—always something was missing. But he wanted to telephone people, his sisters, relatives, friends. He always sought connection. He was a deeply relational man, even though he sometimes tipped into jealousy, afraid that someone would take something of his.
But Claudio, as I said, was part of the fabric of his town. For many years he worked as a parking attendant at two local restaurants. He did it with passion and great responsibility. To get to work he walked—we're in the hills—or hitchhiked, standing in the middle of the road gesturing until someone stopped. But his other great passion was lavender. He collected it in abundance—the town grows it everywhere—people asked him for it, they even brought it to his house in large quantities, and he packed it carefully, making what people called "lavender bundles." It's an art, he learned it from an uncle, but it became his alone. And at the town festival, he had his place in the piazza with a basket, selling them with such pride and charm.
He had earned his place in the community through effort and determination; his way of moving through the world, his quick and watchful eye, his smile won the affection of many. His value and uniqueness were proved by his funeral. The church was packed—friends, many relatives; his family, particularly his brother Gabriele and Maria, found consolation in the presence and closeness of so many people.
Why did I want to write about Claudio? Because through him I had the chance to listen to those who loved him and cared for him until the end: his brother and his wife. Two good, generous, humble people who do not seek notice for their kindness. With discretion, respect, and devotion, they cared for Claudio, allowing him his autonomy and securing his physical and emotional well-being in his home. Surrounded by the love and affection of his nieces and nephews, who followed their parents' example and held him dear.
While his parents lived, Gabriele and Maria were in the background, always near; then they became his full-time caregivers. I felt Gabriele and Maria's suffering at Claudio's death, but above all I witnessed the great love they bore for him. In recent years his health had grown fragile; they were always there for him with care and concern. Claudio was a fortunate man. He had his older brother Gabriele, who loved him, and Gabriele's wife, who embraced him as a brother, and his nephews and nieces.
Gabriele was for Claudio a figure in the shadows—his guardian angel, a precious invisible presence while his parents lived, and then fully present. His goodness of heart surely gave his parents hope, offering them peace and the assurance that Claudio would be looked after when they were gone.