The world of Milo, a much-loved cat, and the pain of loss. This is "Quando le cose si rompono"

Where, physically, is pain located? Costanza Rizzacasa D’Orsogna’s book, "Quando le cose si rompono" (Solferino), opens with this question. Is it possible to distance oneself from pain or to reject it? Pain drains all energy and causes one to drown in an endless sea of second thoughts, regrets and anguish. It is a two-fold process that leaves one exhausted—one would never wish to enter it, and indeed one does not enter it, but is swept into it: for the author, this happens with the passing of Milo, her much-loved disabled cat who had been a constant companion in her daily life for years, redefining its meaning and depth, and restoring to her a holistic view of existence that was sweet, acute and, of course, feline.

The bond with Milo is the hallmark of a parent-child relationship that demands daily care, attention and patience, and which results in an effort that is scarcely noticeable except in the fullness of a day spent together – a day that can only be described as a happy one. Happy years, albeit complicated and troubled ones. So what are we to do with the pain, how can we transform it? Denial and rejection always come first, but then all that remains is to sink one’s nails and one’s head into that terrible void. A void made all the more acute when one considers that, in the very same days, Costanza Rizzacasa D’Orsogna lost her father – a double bereavement that saw her as both mother and daughter at the same time, shaken and tossed about by an existence that suddenly seemed fragile, devoid of those fixed points that had until then defined it: “I’d like to tell you that what saved me was the thought of my father still being alive, that even then, between late March and early April, it still seemed as though he might recover. The new ward to which he’d been transferred seemed a little more humane; my brother spoke to me of a rehabilitation clinic. I’d like to tell you all this, but that’s not how it was. At that moment, I didn’t care a jot about my father.”

Grief takes on radical forms, absurd only to those who remain untouched by it. The author finds herself confronted with the intensity of her own feelings a moment before everything dissolves into uncontrollable grief. Milo thus becomes what cats often come to symbolise: a magical creature capable of containing the feelings of others – or rather, of those who recognise them and love them intensely. Milo ignites the pain caused by his disappearance, yet at the same time renders it fluid, freeing it from its darkness by offering Rizzacasa D’Orsogna another possible path – not an escape, not a stopgap, but a new way of conceiving of herself in the world, and of herself as a daughter too. These are subtle shifts, delicate transitions that the author highlights with delicacy and precision. When Things Break embodies, in fact, the strength of taking action in the face of the void left by loss – an action that is always conscious and never merely a sterile performance.

And so kintsugi, the ancient Japanese art of repairing shattered pottery without concealing the cracks, using urushi lacquer mixed with gold, silver or platinum dust, becomes an expression of wisdom that transcends the mere reality of what exists: “Kintsugi speaks of resilience; it tells us that there is beauty even in our fractures, that our wounds can be a source of strength and we must not be ashamed of them, that everything can, in some way, be repaired. The beauty of imperfection is a metaphor for life: all our experiences, missteps and setbacks are opportunities to grow and become stronger”.

Milo transformed Costanza Rizzacasa D’Orsogna’s world; he did so upon his arrival and again upon his departure, redrawing the past, present and future boundaries that have shaped the author’s life.

The world as seen through Milo’s eyes appears like this: once again perceptible and capable of a happiness that is surprising time and again.