Noris

I am Noris's mother—she is my oldest daughter.
Like so many mothers before me, I wanted to tell you about my child.

Let me introduce her: twelve years old, with chestnut hair framing a delicate face, and two large, luminous eyes the color of emerald.
From the moment she was born, she claimed our love fiercely, returning it with the helplessness of a fragile creature. She grew healthy and strong until her sixth month.

After her polio vaccination, we noticed a sharp change. That was only the beginning of her illness. Her expression became distant. She could not hold up her head. She could not sit, could not speak her first words. She had uncoordinated movements and was easily agitated.

We took her desperately to doctors. They did all they could. But when they understood what was wrong, they told us plainly:
In simple terms, our little girl was not normal.
That terrible truth left my husband and me unprepared. Nothing—not the advice of family, not the comfort of friends—could touch the wound. An invisible wall of estrangement rose between us and everyone else. We found ourselves alone, each locked in our own pain, our own fate.

In the years that followed, the gap between Noris and other children her age grew wider. She needed constant care. The thought of sending her to school, of being parted from her for even a few hours each day, only deepened our despair.

We looked into various institutions. Finally, we chose the school she attends now.
There she receives loving care and learns to understand so many things. She is among children like herself, and she is happy.

In the evening, when the school van brings her home, her little sisters wait eagerly. Though they are young, they give her all the love that others—in their thoughtless selfishness—have always withheld from her.
Sometimes I catch myself watching her in wonder.

My second daughter, Sabrina, has learned to anticipate my duties as a mother.
The moment the van drops Noris off, she rushes to remove her corrective shoes—they are too heavy and cumbersome.
The sisters share everything: toys, sweets, magazines, whatever they have.

When they play together, Noris sometimes grows restless. Her sisters move close, stroke her hair, comfort her. Together they take her by the hand and lead her to her favorite chair. They play her fairy tales and songs. When she smiles, they are satisfied and happy.

These moments, born from their simplicity and their goodness, fill our hearts with joy—hearts that have ached for years with a sorrow almost too great to bear.

It is these two small children who offer us real help, a living example of how to love, cherish, and respect all children like Noris.

- Maria Pia Papetti, 1975

N.B. This magazine is born from a desire to reach out to those far away.
Everyone—young and old—is warmly invited to contribute with simplicity: letters, drawings, testimonies.

Those who wish to help with the magazine's costs (paper, printing, etc.) may send what you can to the same address.