Yesterday, Paolo and I attended the funeral of a 32-year-old
woman who died after a long struggle with ovarian cancer.
I didn’t know the woman, but Paolo is friends with her
husband; he works where Paolo buys a lot of his construction supplies. We knew
his wife had been sick for some time, and when Paolo’s friend was no longer at
work – he was staying in Rome to be near his wife, who was installed at a cancer
clinic there – we suspected the worst. Still, when news of her death came, it
was a sad semi-shock.
At some point in the last couple of years, Paolo must have
told his friend that we were trying to get pregnant. His friend confided that
he and his wife could not have children; cancer had already taken care of that.
So when I did finally become pregnant, I always felt like a bit of a heel
whenever I’d walk into the warehouse where his friend worked – like I was
somehow flaunting our good fortune and my growing belly in the face of their sad,
terrible luck.
Paolo’s friend was always kind and enthusiastic about my pregnancy
and afterwards, when we brought Naomi into the warehouse. He was no less kind
when I saw him yesterday, as I gave him the customary kiss on both cheeks and
muttered some words of condolence, all of my Italian suddenly escaping me. In
fact, he seemed to be consoling me as
my words fell flat and my eyes welled up.
The church was filled to capacity, so we waited outside with
several hundred other people who’d come to pay their respects. Listening to the
priest’s eulogy and then her brother’s tearful goodbye to his little sister, it
was the first time I wished that I didn’t understand Italian as well as I do. I’ve
attended other funerals here, but I’ve always been able to zone out as the
words and repeated prayers drifted over my head, just unintelligible enough for
me to not have to tune in.
But not this time. The priest delivered a touching tribute
to this woman who was obviously well-loved in her community, and adored by her
family and young husband. He spoke of her loved ones’ confusion and frustration
that God did not answer their prayers, and save their daughter, sister, wife
and friend. He spoke of how she would join her mother, who died when she was
just a teenager. I don’t think he had a good answer for why God ignored their
pleas – to this day, I’ve not heard a satisfactory explanation for why God
allows so much pain and suffering in life.
When the mass was finished and the psalter had been passed
around the coffin, the mourners began to file out, and make way for the casket
and immediate family to exit. First came the elaborate flower arrangements,
their cellophane wrappers all crackling in the wind – a sound I’ll forever associate
with Italian funerals. Then came the casket, carried by four of her relatives.
Right behind them was her husband, who seemed to have lost all the stoic calm
he held together inside the church. He walked alone, red-eyed and weepy, and I
wondered why he didn’t have a friend or family member at his side, to hold his
arm or shoulder. But maybe he had to make that walk by himself.
We opted not to join the funeral procession as the mourners followed
the slow-moving hearse on foot up the hill to the cemetery. I think seeing a
young man give his wife’s coffin a final kiss goodbye before she was lowered
into the ground would have been too much for both of us. Instead, we walked
back to the car in silence.
Paolo and I have a lot of worries these days. Money is scarce, the Italian economy is tanking, my elderly parents are on the decline, and this brutally hot summer is further proof that global warming threatens to turn the green hills of Umbria into the sands of Morocco. Still, once we were headed back to Allerona, I said to Paolo, “Let’s not complain about anything anymore today.” He agreed.
Paolo and I have a lot of worries these days. Money is scarce, the Italian economy is tanking, my elderly parents are on the decline, and this brutally hot summer is further proof that global warming threatens to turn the green hills of Umbria into the sands of Morocco. Still, once we were headed back to Allerona, I said to Paolo, “Let’s not complain about anything anymore today.” He agreed.
We picked up Naomi from my mother-in-law’s, and her disposition
was sunnier than ever. All yesterday evening, she played and clowned and
laughed, and her giggle seemed sweeter than it ever had.
So today, I remain without any irreverent prose or funny
stories about life in the Italian countryside. I’m tired, because I have a baby
who still won’t sleep through at night. I’m sad every time I think about the poor
young widower, walking behind the coffin carrying his wife, and along with her,
all their hopes and dreams for a future together.
And mostly I’m grateful, and I don’t want to complain about anything
today.