I want to remember you this way: your face serene and at rest, the way it looked that Saturday morning in January when you fell asleep on our living room couch and never woke. So beautiful. An angel returned to the angels. Finally free from the terrible suffering that had consumed you in those last months—a relentless, devastating storm that battered your body and took over everything. The same suffering that had shadowed your entire brief life, wasting your small frame, twisting your muscles, transforming your beautiful angelic face into something unrecognizable. It left us helpless, powerless, as we watched you struggle with the agitation we couldn't calm, the phlegm choking you that we couldn't clear, the sudden high fevers that shook your fragile limbs until your skin burned and left you exhausted and weak.
I want to remember your smile—the one that would break across your face whenever the illness gave you a moment's peace. So sweet. Unforgettable. A sign of joy and happiness, whether it came from a sound, a song, a word, a touch—and that smile alone could erase all the bitterness, sacrifice, and daily struggle.
I want to remember the moments we shared. They were singular. Miraculous. When I held you on my lap and read you fairy tales, sang you songs, made you dance. And all those times you fell asleep pressed against my chest like a small creature, and I stayed absolutely still, hardly breathing so I wouldn't wake you. Or when I told you, over and over, never tiring of it: "I love you."
I want to remember you, my small eternal child—someone I needed to protect from everything and everyone, to care for with every step as if you were a newborn, even though you weren't newborn anymore. And as time passed, my worry for your future only grew.
I want to remember the tenderness and sweetness in your eyes—those large, deep dark eyes. You were a fragile creature, delicate as precious crystal, and yet at the same time so strong and determined in bearing and fighting the pain. You had such a hunger to live, despite everything.
I want what remains with me to be the memory of the endless, profound emotions you gave me and everything you taught me through your courage and your simplicity—so far removed from the standards this world imposes, standards that cast out the weak, the different, the defenseless, only to praise those who appear perfect and flawless.
You, little bird who never learned to fly and who now soars free in the sky;
you who never could run, speak, or walk;
you who filled every day, every hour, every minute, every second of my life and gave my existence meaning;
give me now the strength to carry on, in the hope that someday, all of this will be more than just a memory.
Donatella Marazzini, 2005
