The Circle Is Complete
A life story never truly begins on the first page. Long before I was born, there were already people making choices through which my path became possible. My parents. My grandparents. The generations before them, whose names I no longer know in full, but whose lives nevertheless continue somewhere within mine. When I began this book, I looked mainly backward. Toward Loreto Aprutino. Toward the mining settlement. Toward my father descending into the darkness.
Toward my mother, who kept our family united through her love. Toward the boy I was, who did not yet know which roads awaited him. Now that I am approaching the end, I look forward again. Toward Michael. Toward Chiara, Laura, Helena, and Andreas. Toward the people who may one day open these pages when my own voice can no longer be heard. There, between looking back at the past and looking ahead to the future, I feel the circle become complete.
Not like a door closing forever, but like a movement returning to its origin and then setting out again from there. My father left Italy with the hope that his children would have a better life. He could not know that one of those children would one day write his story. He could not suspect that his great-grandchildren might read about the mine, the settlement, and the courage with which he began again.
My mother could not know that her daily care, which seemed so simple and natural then, would later become one of the most important lessons in this book. And Marco could not know how many pages I would one day write to preserve who he truly was. Yet all of them are present. Not only in what I tell about them.
But also in the way I learned to look at life. My father continues to live in my respect for honest work. My mother in my conviction that love becomes visible above all through actions. Marco in my curiosity and my refusal to accept the word impossible too quickly. Michael too taught me that love does not ask a person to follow the same path. And my grandchildren remind me that a family's story is not a period.
It is the ground upon which new lives can choose their own direction. Perhaps that is the true meaning of a circle. Not that we return to exactly the place where everything began. We return as different people. With more memories. With scars. With gratitude. And with the awareness that along the way, we received something we must not keep to ourselves. My parents gave me a beginning. Dorina gave me a shared life.
Marco and Michael gave me the privilege of being a father. My grandchildren gave me a view toward the future. My friends gave me their loyalty, support, and countless memories. The people who disappointed me gave me, often against my will, lessons about boundaries and forgiveness. And life gave me time. Not infinite time.
But enough to work. Dream. Fall. Rise again. And finally, write these words. Now I pass the story on. Not as a perfect truth. Not as a manual others must follow. But as a testimony. This is how I traveled my road. These are the people who shaped me. These are the mistakes from which I hope others may learn something.
And this is the love I do not want to be lost. The circle is complete. But the story is not over. From the moment a reader takes these pages in hand, it begins moving again. Perhaps in a memory. Perhaps in a conversation around a family table.
Perhaps in a grandchild's question. Or in the courage of someone who, after a difficult day, decides to rise one more time. Then what I received is passed on again. And that is precisely where the meaning of this book lies for me. Not that my story should be repeated endlessly.
But that the love preceding it should continue finding its way into the future.
