Remembering Alessandro
Remembering Alessandro
by Susan Valaer | Vancouver, WA
“I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?” – Haruki Murakami
I met Alessandro on a steep stretch of the Camino Primitivo, where he and his five countrymen chanted “I-tal-ia!” as we raced breathlessly toward an imaginary finish line at the crest of the climb. I am thrilled to report that Team USA crossed first. Alessandro gave me a crown of weeds and we continued on, ending up in the same albergue many a night, stepping in each other’s footprints over 14 days through the Asturian mountains.
Alessandro passed away this year. I don’t know what happened, only that I saw Facebook posts about how he was going to be missed and how much the Camino meant to him. I knew him for a sliver of a moment, and yet I will not forget his laughter, his enthusiasm, his unwavering belief that if he just spoke Italian a little faster, I’d eventually understand. His image—loud, full of banter, hands wildly gesticulating—is tightly lodged in the Primitivo picture book in my head. In my memory, I walk up this shady slope, and he’s laughing at the top. I check into the albergue tonight, and he’s raising a toast at the end of the table. I walk into Santiago and he’s celebrating, embracing everyone around him.
My mother died when I was 14, my father when I was 36. No particular moments stand out during those years we had together—a smattering of photographs, one or two traditions passed down. I tell you this not to garner sympathy, but to let you know why I am on this journey with my son Sam and why Alessandro is on my mind. How does a man I met only briefly stand out in my memory, when others have faded?
When I sink into myself at the end, the new owner of my little house might wonder for a moment or two who I was, but they will not remember the parties on the patio, the family dinners, the mantel loaded each Christmas with homemade stockings. They won’t know that I walked Caminos, that I cherished a full house, that I loved my children. But the people who walked those Caminos with me, who came to the parties, and these children of mine? They know they are loved.
I am walking with my Sam so that he knows me, as much as I want to know him. Life is like a “bang snap” thrown on hot July pavement—a brilliant flash of light, a quick “pop,” and then a bit of paper left in the grass, gone so quickly. Today, I will show Sam where I met Alessandro, where I met Manon, where I met the Austrian sisters. I’ll show him so he can remember them, so he can remember me, so he can remember us. I will give him something to consider and quietly smile over when I am no longer here to remind him
