The tall, dark blond-haired young man stepped into my path.
I was rounding a cobblestone corner in an ancient Italian village in Umbria, winding my way up to the Duomo (don’t all Italian streets lead to a Duomo?).
.
It was a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon in late summer, the town teeming with tourists.

I had strayed away from my friends, savoring the freedom of strolling alone through this stunning city high atop a hill.

The young man forced a flyer into my hand.
When I paused, he pointed to a space on his arm where a small puncture wound told a far darker story.  Another young man stood at a nearby table handing out glossy flyers and accepting donations from passers-by.

Like any American corner. Two clean and sober young men, trying to earn what they could for their treatment program.

The government, it does not support us, he said in halting English. I do not use 6 months.

My son is in recovery too, I said, hoping he understood.
Yes? You are mother?
I nodded and held up ten fingers – then one more.
Months? he asked.
No, years, I replied.
Ahhh. You are mother. So you know, and he smiled broadly.

Into the small bucket he carried I dropped a few euros.

Despite his faltering English, and my appalling Italian, we understood each other.
Addiction and recovery – a universal language.

Later, a Canadian woman at our villa shared that she had been stopped by this same pair. She also gave euros – far more than I. Even though her story was more personal than mine, it didn’t matter. I admired her generosity.

Thinking of my son, I wished I had given more, too.
I always wish I had given more.