Chapter 33 27 August 2009 - When Time Stood Still
On 27 August 2009, Marco took his own life. I write that sentence without evasion, but also without reducing him to that one act. He did not die because he loved us too little or because we loved him too little. In his deepest despair, he could no longer see a way out. Bipolar disorder and depression had narrowed his reality to a place where our love could no longer reach him sufficiently.
When the news came, ordinary time ceased to exist. I no longer remember all the words spoken that day. I do remember the silence between them, Dorina’s gaze, and how my body remained standing while everything inside me collapsed. People moved about, telephones rang, and practical questions were asked. I heard them as though I were under water. A father can grow old in a single moment. Dorina took me in her arms and did not let go for a long time. That single gesture held both our lives: her loss, my loss, and the helplessness of parents who could no longer protect their child.
Even in the days of mourning, decisions had to be made. A painful disagreement arose over the funeral: some wanted a cremation, while I wanted Marco to be buried. For two days, there were discussions and negotiations. I did not want a fight, but at that moment I could do nothing other than stand up for that final resting place. In the end, I paid the funeral expenses. Money meant nothing then; only dignity mattered.
We dressed Marco in his wedding suit. In the glass coffin, I could look at him and at the same time barely comprehend that he was truly lying there. A father should not have to bury his son. The entire natural order had been reversed. Even so, I wanted to surround him with care one more time, just as we had when he was born, when I cried with joy because he had entered the world safely.
At the graveside, I knew that no ceremony could bring our bond to an end. The earth closed over his body, not over his life. He remained present in Chiara and Laura, in Michael, in Dorina, in our conversations, and in the thousands of ordinary moments no one could take from us. From that day on, the emptiness became permanent, but so did the love.
The heaviest silence did not come at the cemetery, but when the doors at home closed again. There was nothing left to arrange, yet part of me still expected the sound of his key, his voice, or a message on my phone. Grief did not come as a single wave that passed. It returned in ordinary moments: over a cup of coffee, at an empty place at the table, on a road we had travelled together. Each time, my heart had to learn again what my mind already knew.
Marco—his smile that always stays with us.
Since then, I have measured time differently. There is a life before 27 August 2009 and a life after. But I refuse to let the date Marco died become more important than 10 October 1972, the day he was born, or than all the days when he laughed, was a father, worked, dreamed, and sat beside me in the car. Anyone who wants to know him must see his whole life.
But Marco always turned first toward himself. He wondered what he could have done better. What he had missed. What else he could have tried. As though one human being could carry the weight of the entire world alone. Of course, that was impossible. No one can. And yet he continued to fight. Until the end. That is why I hope no one will ever remember Marco only for the way his life ended. That would be profoundly unfair to him. One day can never tell the story of an entire life. Anyone who truly wants to know who Marco was must look at the thousands of days that preceded that final day. The curious little boy who wanted to understand everything. The student with a great passion for computers and technology. The young father whose face lit up when he spoke about his daughters.
The entrepreneur who smiled in the Glass Pyramid when a new idea finally worked. The son sitting beside me in the car during our journeys to Italy. The man who knew how to enjoy a good espresso. The friend who was always ready to extend a helping hand. That was Marco. And that is how I hope he will always be remembered. I also want to address a few words to everyone who has experienced a similar loss. Never judge too quickly. A human life is always greater than the moment when everything became too heavy. Behind a tragic end, there is often a struggle that most people never saw. Show compassion. Listen. Be present. A sincere conversation cannot solve every problem. But it can make someone feel that he is not alone. When I close my eyes today, I do not see Marco on his final day.
I see all those other moments. Those are the images I want to keep close to me. Not because they erase the pain. But because they are stronger than the pain. Marco… If, in some way, you can still hear these words… there is only one thing I want to say to you. Thank you for everything we were fortunate enough to share. Thank you for your trust. For your friendship. For your love. I am infinitely proud that I was allowed to be your father. And if life gave me the chance to choose again… without a moment’s hesitation, I would walk exactly the same road with you again. Because you were there. A father can wish for nothing more. Rest in peace, my son. Not in oblivion, but in the hearts of everyone who knew you.
And as long as I live… as long as your mother lives… as long as Michael speaks about his brother… as long as Chiara and Laura say your name and later tell their own children who their father was… you will never truly disappear. Love does not die. It continues to live in the people who carry someone in their heart. And that is why your story does not end here. It continues. In us. In the generations who will come after us. Forever.