The Song in an Alley of Italy

Author

Ed Clementi
May 12, 2025

This past Saturday, I was sitting on a couch in the mall, just waiting while my kids browsed a few stores.
I wasn’t in any rush. Just hanging back, letting them do their thing.

But then something happened that pulled me out of the noise and right into a moment.

A dad and his two young daughters rushed over and sat across from me, bags in hand.
The dad pulled out a small wrapped gift from one of the bags, peeled back the tissue paper, and showed his girls what was inside.

I couldn’t see the gift — but I didn’t need to.

Their eyes lit up. Their expressions were pure joy.
One of them whispered, “Hurry, put it back. She’s coming!”

And that’s when it hit me.

This was for Mother’s Day!

It was such a moment of shared excitement. Of appreciation. Of love that couldn’t be contained.
And I sat there thinking… How will I show my appreciation this year? What haven’t I said?

And just like that, my mind went where it usually goes in moments like this — into reflection.

The Gift of Time

Over the past few years, some of my dear friends have had to say goodbye to their moms.

And it has a way of bringing things into focus.

You start to listen more carefully.
You realize how many stories you never asked about.
You begin to understand that time isn’t just limited — it’s sacred.

It’s only in the last several years that I’ve really begun to grasp what my mom carried.

She lost both of her parents just after I was born.
There she was — a young single woman with two babies and no one to guide her.
No roadmap. No safety net. Just survival and instinct.

She didn’t talk about it much back then.
She was too busy making sure we were okay.

She didn’t have backup.
She was the backup.

And she never made us feel like we were missing anything.

That’s not just strength.
That’s leadership.

The Boy in the Alley

Three years ago, I took my mom to Italy — her first time overseas. A dream of hers for decades.
We went to the town where her mother was born, walked its narrow stone streets, and stepped inside the tiny church where her mother had been baptized.

It meant the world to her.

But the moment that stays with me most happened in a quiet little alley beside a small restaurant.
A young boy, maybe 8 or 9, was standing there singing songs for change — a soft, honest voice just filling the air.

I looked over at my mom. Her eyes were glassy. Tears silently slid down her cheeks.

I asked if she was okay.

She nodded and said, “My mother used to sing that to me.”

She didn’t say much else. And she didn’t need to.

We just stood there in that alley, both of us holding something we couldn’t quite put into words.
That song — that moment — gave her back a piece of her mother. And it gave me a whole new window into mine.

The vacation she had always dreamed of had become something far deeper.
It was a return. A connection. A healing.

And in the years that followed, that trip opened the door to stories I never knew.
Bit by bit, she shared more.
What she endured. What she feared. How she kept going.

Not because she wanted credit.
But because she finally felt safe enough to let me see behind the curtain.

What We Miss Until We’re Ready to See It

We don’t always recognize strength in real time.

Sometimes we’re not old enough.
Sometimes we’re too distracted.
Sometimes we just don’t want to believe how much someone has carried — until we’re carrying some of it ourselves.

My mom never pointed to her pain.
She never asked to be seen for how hard it was.
She just did what needed to be done… and let us be kids.

And maybe that’s one of the deepest forms of love there is:
To carry the weight so someone else doesn’t have to.

The Honest Truth

I know I need to do better.
Better at slowing down.
Better at making the time.
Better at answering the call — and placing it, too.

And I will.

One of the things I love most about writing this newsletter each week is that I’m not just writing for the people reading it today.

I’m writing for my kids — so one day, they’ll know more than just what I did.
They’ll know what I felt.
They’ll know who shaped me.

And today, I’m also writing for my mom.

What They Don’t Put on the Card

They don’t put:

“Stood alone, but never let us feel it.”
“Carried heartbreak, but gave us hope.”
“Built something whole out of a life missing pieces.”

But maybe they should.

Because when I think about where I learned to lead —
Where I learned to protect, to push forward, to pour into others even when running on empty —
It wasn’t in a classroom.
It wasn’t on a stage.
It wasn’t in any job I’ve ever held.

It started with her.

With Absolute Sincerity,

Ed Clementi, Founder & CEO of Inspired Fire, LLC

Make an Impact and Feel an Impact.