That smile

Perhaps, when we are young, we think about illness and death differently. They seem far away, almost as though they belonged to another stage of life.

A few days ago, I learned that a young woman I had met many years ago had died suddenly, before even reaching the age of forty. The very first image that came back to me was her smile.

She was a radiant young woman, one of those people who walk into a room and somehow seem to bring a little light with them. She had a beautiful smile, spontaneous and open, and it had probably served her well in her work too. When she was younger, she had worked as a children's entertainer and later became a social worker. Looking back now, it seems like a profession that suited her perfectly.

I met her when she came to my office to buy her first home, in the Novara area. She was still very young and, as so often happens on these occasions, that small apartment meant much more than a simple property purchase. It was a first step towards independence, a life project, a place that would finally be her own.

Her father was with her. She was an only child, and he was understandably very attached to her and very protective. During the signing, we talked about the new apartment, how she was going to furnish it and when she would move in. The atmosphere was relaxed, and she, as always, was smiling.

At one point, I felt like playing a little joke.

With the most serious expression I could manage, I turned to her father and suggested that, naturally, the apartment would also come in useful because his daughter was about to move in with a foreign boyfriend whom he had never met and whom, if I remember correctly, I presented almost as a future son-in-law whose arrival was practically imminent.

His expression changed immediately.

For two or three minutes, he looked genuinely horrified. He stared at me, trying to understand how it was possible that I knew something like that and, above all, how he, such an attentive and protective father, could know absolutely nothing about it.

She, meanwhile, gave me a look that could have killed.

For a moment, I wondered whether I had gone too far.

Then she could no longer hold it in and burst out laughing.

At that point, her father understood too. First he looked at me with an almost reproachful expression, then he smiled, and in the end all three of us were laughing together.

It is one of those tiny episodes which, at the time, seem destined to disappear almost immediately.

A signing, a joke, a family going home with the keys to a new apartment.

Nothing extraordinary.

And yet, after so many years, that memory has remained.

I remember almost nothing about the deed itself. I do not remember the price, the cadastral details, the clauses, or exactly what the apartment looked like.

But I remember her perfectly.

I remember the way she looked at me when she realised it was a joke.

And above all, I remember that smile.

Then life carries us elsewhere.

The people we meet through our work come into our office, share an important moment with us for a few hours, and then continue on their way. Sometimes we never see them again.

But that does not mean they have truly disappeared from our memory.

When I learned of her death, so sudden and so terribly premature, I was deeply shaken.

I thought of her parents, and of that father whom I had gently teased so many years before precisely because of how deeply attached he was to her.

And I thought of how unbearable it must be for a parent to outlive a child.

Once again, I realised how strange this profession can be.

We think we will remember the deeds, but instead we remember the people.

We think that what remains in our memory will be houses, companies, wills and contracts.

And yet, after so many years, what remains is often a gesture, a sentence, a look.

Or a smile.

Hers, certainly, is one I have never forgotten.