Rosamaria

Davide taught you silence. It is hard to get you to speak. I will do it for you: for the respect and affection I bear you, but above all to tell you, Franco, and parents like you, that we feel we owe you a debt. How many times, reading Ombre e Luci with its stories of activities, progress, independence gained, have you asked yourself: "But what about me? What about Davide?"

Do you remember that day at camp in Rocca di Papa? You said through tears: "You see, with all these other kids, their friends pitch in: they play, they help, they sing. With Davide, they can't do anything. He can't see, can't speak, can't move. I understand them, I don't blame them, but it hurts so much. What is the point of Davide's life?" We didn't know what to say. We could only try to show you, somehow, that you mattered to us as much as anyone else did. That because of your greater hardship, we loved you even more.

So we freed you from caring for him, at least for those few days. We learned to sit in silence beside him, to play guitar, to sing. And Davide would laugh. We learned to change him, to feed him, even though he resisted our touch. We organized a contest for "beauty queen of the camp." Among all the girls, you were chosen, and you were invited to dance alone on the edge of the pool, under the moonlight. I can almost still see you, barefoot, in a light blue skirt, beautiful and smiling; and all of us around you clapping and singing to tell you how happy we were to see you smile. You told me you hadn't danced since you were twenty years old; your life as a young wife had stopped then: you were twenty-three when Davide was born.

"I learned, to meet Davide's needs, to value only the important things in life"

You told me the other evening on the phone: "I've never envied the mothers of healthy, beautiful children who complained about their little troubles, but I would have wanted them to ask me about Davide, about his progress, his struggles. I was dying to talk about him. For them, for almost everyone, it was as if he didn't exist. That made me angry then, and it still does today. Sometimes I ask myself: 'But am I dead?' In some ways, yes: I've learned, to meet his needs, to value only the important things in life. My own wishes? I've gotten used to not having them. I appreciate people only to the extent that they show care for him and for us as we are. And that's all. I have so many things I feel inside me that I want to say. But you know me—I don't know how to talk."

That is why we feel we owe you a debt. Faced with your Davide and children like him, we are uncomfortable. We fear overstepping. We don't know what to say. Out of respect, we choose silence. In doing so, we leave you alone—alone with your grief.

All we can do is bow our heads and learn from your heroic devotion, so that we too might make some gesture toward you to repay what we owe.

- Mariangela Bertolini, 1999