«You know, Mariangela, I've had the same dream three times now — the Pope caressing Francesca.»
Francesca is ten years old, nearly immobile in her wheelchair. She lives with her mother, father, and little brother in a small town in the South.
«I wish so badly, though I hardly dare hope it, that Francesca could meet the Pope.»
So one Wednesday, this little family set out at four in the morning, heading for Rome, with an appointment at the bronze doors. There, tickets waited with all four names on them. A young man from Rome had taken care to turn the dream into reality.
«Listen, after we see the Pope, we're coming to find you. We have a mobile phone, so you can give us directions from Saint Peter's to via Bessarione.»
I've known Francesca's mother, Immacolata, for several years now, but we'd only ever spoken on the phone — about information, advice, various kinds of help. From her voice alone, I'd formed an image: a fighting mother, courageous, filled with determination to do everything possible for her daughter's life. I remember one day she was particularly sad, crying because Francesca had fallen and broken her arm. I didn't know how to comfort her. I can't recall exactly what I said, but I know that in that moment my heart made a special place for her and her family, even though I'd never seen them except in photographs.
Last Wednesday, then, at one o'clock — the hour when our editorial team is usually already home — the phone from the South finally came to life: «We're here, in front of the flower shop. We can't find via Bessarione!»
We rushed outside, went to meet them. Welcomes, greetings, celebration, emotion, stories about the encounter with the Pope — all in great haste because they had to leave at once, the journey ahead was long. «My husband has to work tomorrow.»
Meanwhile we noticed Immacolata unloading large packages from the car — one for each of us and one for the young man who had arranged the audience.
«These are Saint Joseph's little loaves; we made them yesterday and didn't sleep all night to bake them in the wood-fired oven. It's a tradition in our town. We make them in the name of someone dear to us, and we offer them to Saint Joseph in thanksgiving for a gift received. These ones Francesca is giving to you. We also brought a basket to the Pope, decorated with white and yellow ribbons — who knows if he'll be able to taste one. The person who receives a loaf, the first thing they do is kiss it, and in return they say: 'May Saint Joseph protect you and bless you!'»
We took Francesca's gift in our hands, embraced her along with her kind mother, and wished them all the good they could possibly need.
We glanced toward the great dome that almost overlooks our office: would the Pope be kissing one of these little loaves right now, sending his good wishes and his thanks to little Francesca?
We think he is.
- Mariangela Bettolini, 1999