Pippo

A few days ago Renato and I went around town in the Mercedes for the first time since he lost his Pippo.

The occasion was devoted to my day job, not my dream job. My day job is fun, but not as much fun as my dream job (ho, ho, ho), but, all in all, I can’t complain, especially when I put things into perspective.

The night before, Renato’s boss called to advise me not to bring up the tragedy because Renato was still vulnerable.

Renato showed up wearing his nicest suit and tie and was, as usual, cordial and professional all day, giving the best of himself.

We had a good day together. After work, in the car, he gave me a laminated plastic card with a formal color photo of Pippo on one side and his and his wife’s remembrance printed on the back.

Pippo was a good-looking kid with the kind of smile that must have come easy to him, just like his father’s. Even though the photo was a close up, you could see that at 12 he was big for his age, almost as tall as his father. He looked like the kind of kid you’d just love to put your arm around and give a big hug, even if he was sweaty and dirty after a soccer game. A sweet kid. A golden boy. A buddy and a pal.

I told Renato I would treasure the photo and that I had already lit a candle for Pippo that morning. As promised, I have placed the photo next to a reproduction icon of the Madonna and Child I have kept on my bookshelf for years, from apartment to apartment, from Rome to New York to Rome again.

The icon was a gift from an old college friend, a bighearted, altruistic girl brimming with joy and laughter. An Ivy League honors student with a Jewish background who renounced a life of privilege to become a nun and serve the poor. I lost contact with this friend decades ago, when Meli was still a baby, but I know she is praying for us all, whether on earth or in heaven.

Natural contrarian that I am, I wasn’t a good Jewish girl nor am I an exemplary Catholic, but I always keep that icon in view to remind me of that friend and what selflessness is all about.

Renato told me that the day after Pippo died, in the midst of their family’s grief, their 14-month old daughter stood up and started to walk. Renato believes it was “as if,” in spirit, Pippo, who loved his baby sister immensely, returned to take her by the hand and guide her as she took her first steps in the world.