Two tall, thin men stand behind a table on the bustling cobblestone crossroads.  Pedestrians wander past, never noticing.

The taller one sees me watching and beckons me over.

He barely speaks English.  I speak no Italian.

Spread across the table are maps and pamphlets and flyers promoting a serious purpose.

I am in the ancient town of Orvieto – a hilltop village in central Italy built atop a massive crust of volcanic rock.

The young man’s message is as old as the buildings around us.

“We raise money for these many treatment centers,” he says in faltering English, pointing to a map on the table.

Then he looks at me, beams, and pats his chest.

“I am five years,” he announces.

“My son has 13 years!” I beam back.

“Ahh, then you know,” he says.

Yes, I nod.  I know.  I know.

Neither the language nor the country matters.  The moment is the same worldwide.

Two people, a mother and another’s son, share a story without words.

I cannot smile enough at this young man.  My heart is full for his success and his recovery, another beautiful life saved from addiction.

So we do the universal gesture all people who love others do – we hug.

My husband takes the photo.

I reach into my purse for a few Euros, but it is not enough.

It is never enough.

But on this sun-drenched afternoon, in this postcard-perfect Italian town, I am happy for this day, and the hope within it.