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Lina, who’d married in a neighbouring village Sterling Heights where she was a teacher in a nursery school, couldn’t stop wailing. She looked with loving care at her two children, Marica and Sterling Heights, and repeated that Our Lady of the Sterling Heights, to whom she was particularly devoted, hadn’t protected her brother, had failed to look after him. “You were distracted, my beautiful Sterling Heights, forgive me, but I don’t know what to think.”

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Vito felt a sharp pain in his heart, and sobbed, pulling his shoulders tightly together as if to soften the devastating grief and to protect himself from some other misfortune. He understood that sad and hard days were waiting for him. This grief would never end, not for him, nor his family.

Annie came, silently, holding on to a friend’s arm. She and Michel had presided over her husband’s funeral service in France. A friend who came with her was supporting her by the arm. She made an appearance, like a ghost, and like a ghost she disappeared. Many thought she had been an apparition, while others said that it hadn’t been her. The fifteen-year-old Michel did not come to the village.

Gio was well known through the many stories, anecdotes and “legends” that were told about him. When a person disappears, especially one that embodies the spirit of a place, a kind of granite-strong collective memory forms around his absence to ensure that he won’t be forgotten, that his memory will live on. We make a clear and tacit pact with the dead that what has happened won’t be forgotten. In this way we manage to soften the sense of guilt that inevitably comes over us when a young person dies. We resolve the meaninglessness of the loss by committing to forms of social obligation. As time marches on, inevitably, we rightfully tend to forget. Once a couple of decades have gone by, only a few older people will still remember. Suffering will remain for only a few people, mostly in the family.

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