Once again, on January 6th, we gathered at our house with friends from the Raggi di Sole group. This annual celebration has been happening now for more than twenty years. What started simply—just an excuse to spend time together, sharing food with family—gradually transformed, thanks to my mother's full participation, into our Befana party. Over the years, it became something people looked forward to: an evening of joy and togetherness.
My mother Maria had a gift for making people laugh. She embraced the role of the Befana with such ease—she was always the first to have fun with it. For her, putting on the costume and makeup was deeply satisfying. With cheerful laughter, she would approach everyone carrying a heavy sack of stockings and small gifts, playing tricks on those who deserved them.
Looking back at photos from all these years, you see so many faces—people who came and went, some who are no longer with us. And in those pictures are the children, some frightened by the old woman, but also excited to receive something, their fear mixing with smiles as they kissed the Befana.
In our Veneto region, the Befana celebration is a treasured folk tradition. In town squares, she appears as an old witch dressed in black, her face marked with charcoal, a broom of twigs in hand, a long pointed nose—giving candy to good children and coal to the naughty ones. Our mother filled so many evenings with celebration and laughter over the years; and though she has been gone for twelve years now, the Befana gathering with the Raggi di Sole group has continued.
So this year, we weren't about to let the tradition slip away. While my mother's Befana was one of a kind—no one else could quite do it like her—each year since she left us, we search for a new Befana. I'd say we've had quite a parade of original characters over the years, each with their own way of dressing, makeup, humor, and gift for bringing joy. But the anticipation is always there.
This year our house filled with people—twenty-five? thirty? I lost count. After we'd shared a dinner with all the dishes everyone brought, there was a strange bell sound. A shrill voice. Out of the darkness came two figures in folk costumes: the Befanas. This year there were two of them—the first was a little shy and found a traveling companion for courage, so they could support each other through the difficult work.
There were no children there this time; the ones who came in earlier years have all grown up and don't join the group anymore. But on this evening, we all became children again. The faces of our friends with disabilities showed pure joy and wonder. They wanted to move closer, to touch the Befana, yet at the same time they held back. They reached out their hands for a gift, then quickly pulled them back in fear.
Yes, truly, we all become children again in this game of fantasy, surprise, wonder, and joy.
And this year too, the Befanas were a hit—a winning pair. As they prepared to leave for other stops, some of our friends found the courage to ask for a photo together, wanting to show they'd been good. How beautiful, how lovely the simplicity of it.