There's an anecdote I carry with me, simple, almost invisible, but which says a lot about Alex Zanardi. I never met him in person. I met him as we meet people who, from a distance, enter our lives because they are public figures.

It was an ordinary evening, tired, distracted, the television on without conviction. Alex was speaking, sitting naturally. At one point, he recounted a small daily difficulty, closing with a light joke, accompanied by that smile that didn't deny the struggle but made it livable. I realized I was smiling too. Not out of solidarity, but out of recognition.

Today is not a great day, but it is a day. And that's enough to love it.

He was telling me that you can go on slowly, crookedly, imperfectly. Moving forward remains an act of love.

I turned off the TV with a precise feeling, as if someone had placed a hand on my shoulder without announcing themselves.

Gentle irony. The choice to live without excuses and without useless grandeur. This, for me, is Alex Zanardi. A memory that carries weight, that sustains.