When I started writing, I had no idea where to begin. Telling a story and putting your thoughts in order isn't always easy. I decided to close my eyes for a moment and search inside myself for an image—the clearest memory I had of my brother's wonderful eyes. Almost at once, a photograph came to mind. I don't know where it is anymore, but I've looked at it countless times: the two of us sitting side by side in the same pose on the gravel path of my grandmother's driveway, the same smile and gaze as two children barely six years old, hand in hand. And from that moment, some memories began to surface.
When we were small (and actually for years afterward), Corrado and I often played a game: pressing our faces together, nose to nose, eyes to eyes, waiting in silence for one of us to shout "Boo!" and startle the other. He always laughed so hard. Every time I stared into his eyes from that close, I always wondered the same thing: why were his blue and mine weren't? Mamma used to tell me that everyone who met him was captivated by his blonde bob and his eyes—beautiful, bright blue, and large. We looked alike, yet everything about our features was different. My eyes never caught anyone's attention. So I envied his a little.
During our childhood, Corrado and I were brothers who had to live apart much of the time, because living together created problems—difficulties that had to be managed. My presence triggered intense jealousy in him. He couldn't stand to see me. Especially near Mamma. I remember when Mamma and I would hide from his view to hold hands; it happened most often on the couch, with him between us as a barrier, and we'd clasp hands in a gesture of complicity right behind his back. I was aware of our differences—not just the eyes—and I could do nothing but keep my distance, watch him, and interact during the calm moments. I didn't truly "see" Corrado until I grew older.
His gaze, those impish eyes he had when he was about to cause trouble (he could dream up a hundred things the moment one idea struck him!); and when he got caught, he'd stare you down and deny everything. "Ciaccia did it," he'd say. When he challenged us, when he provoked us… He did it to everyone, as if he had no fear. I remember the darker moments, when his gaze lost its light and color, when his eyes were tired, angry, frightened, and lost. His eyes spoke to me in many different languages, and I had to learn them all. It took time to distinguish what I "saw" from what was really there, beyond the blue.
But more than anything, I remember his eyes when he was happy! When he laughed with real joy, when he made funny faces, when he'd squeeze both eyes shut to give a wink, or when his whole face would light up whenever he ran into a friend—his extraordinary friends from Fede e Luce, almost all "rebaptized" because he decided, just by looking at you, whether you were a Giovanni, an Alessandro, or a Ferruccio. He found the most unlikely names. He invented, created names and expressions out of nothing, because that's how he saw reality. I discovered Corrado as I fell in love with the way he saw things, transformed them, deciphered them in such a particular and unique way. I entered his world, learning above all that beyond the blue, in his eyes lived the reflection of something no one could ever have shown me—something pure, clear, carefree, and deep. His eyes focused on small things, simple moments, ordinary gestures, magnifying their emotions, their images, and today, their memories.
Corrado's last look pierced my heart. It's the image that remains… that blue… becoming more intense, and with it the altitude, preceding infinite space.