The Most Beautiful Form of Immortality

Your Last Suit or Dress Has No Pockets

Lately, death seems to have been making itself known to me a little more often than usual. Not because it has come any closer, thankfully, but because it keeps appearing. A neighbour who was far too young. Someone I spoke to only last month. The mother of a friend. A familiar face from the village square, or someone I knew only from a passing greeting in the street.

You pause for a moment, send a message of condolence, carry on with your day, and yet something lingers. Like a tiny pebble in your shoe that you barely notice at first, but feel with every step you take.

People often say there are only two certainties in life: taxes and death. Many Italians would probably laugh at that. Taxes, after all, can sometimes prove remarkably flexible here. Death, on the other hand, is stubbornly reliable. Sooner or later it catches up with everyone, even those who secretly believe themselves to be immortal.

Since moving to Italy, I have discovered that not only life itself, but death too, has its own culture. It begins with the way bad news is delivered. In the Netherlands, doctors are generally honest and direct. Sometimes painfully so, occasionally lacking in tact, but clear nonetheless. Here in Italy, it is still not unusual for the children or the spouse to know exactly how serious the situation is, while the patient is told only to rest a little more or continue the treatment for a while longer. The truth is softened, hope is preserved and fear is kept at bay for as long as possible.

The pragmatic Dutchwoman in me longs for honesty, while the Italian side that has quietly settled into my soul over the years understands that instinctive desire to protect someone until the very end.

The final chapter of life often unfolds differently here as well. Italy does not have euthanasia in the way the Netherlands does. Patients may refuse further treatment, and palliative sedation is available when suffering becomes unbearable, but actively ending a person’s life at their request is not an option. The influence of the Catholic tradition remains profound. Life is regarded as a gift entrusted by God, and only God may decide when it ends.

As a result, I sometimes see people lingering for weeks, months or even years after their bodies seem to have whispered that they have had enough. It makes me reflect. Not so much on death itself, because I am honestly not afraid of dying. I am afraid of needless suffering, of a farewell stretched out for so long that dignity slowly slips away.

And if there is one thought that truly frightens me, it is not my own death but my daughter. The idea that one day she might have to continue without me touches me far more deeply than the thought that I will no longer be here. That is what love does. It does not make death greater, it makes goodbye more difficult.

For that very reason, I try not to postpone living. I want her to grow up knowing that kindness is never wasted, that a glorious sunset deserves to be admired, that dinner with friends should never be rushed, and that an unexpected smile from a stranger can brighten an entire day. In the end, it is precisely those small moments that make a life extraordinary.

Perhaps that is why I have started looking differently at the way Italy says goodbye to its dead. Here, death still walks quietly through the village. It hangs from white funeral notices pasted to old walls, echoes in church bells and joins the silent procession to the cemetery. Nobody pretends it is not there.

The rituals surrounding death reveal a great deal about a country. In the south of the Netherlands, where I grew up, funerals were often followed by long tables laden with food, coffee, cake and conversations celebrating the life that had been lived. In Italy, things move much faster. Someone may die today and be buried tomorrow.

Whenever I drive through a village and see those white notices fixed to walls and noticeboards, I am reminded of how visible death still is here. It is not hidden away behind closed doors. It remains part of everyday life. Within hours, everyone knows who is gone. Death is quite literally out in the open.

The funeral Mass itself is usually simple. A closed wooden coffin, covered in flowers, stands before the altar while the priest speaks of earthly life, eternal hope and the promise of heaven. Personal tributes are rare, music is limited or absent altogether, and photographs or videos celebrating the life that has just ended are seldom seen. The ritual takes centre stage.

The real farewell often happens earlier, during the veglia funebre, the traditional vigil for the deceased. In the past, the body would be laid out at home, where family, neighbours and friends would gather to keep watch through the night. It was an act of love and respect, but also of practicality. Long before modern medicine and reliable death certificates, people wanted to be absolutely certain that someone had truly passed away before burial took place. Today, these vigils are increasingly held in funeral homes or mortuaries, yet the underlying sentiment remains unchanged: no one should leave this world alone.

One thing that still strikes me every time is how little importance Italians attach to outward appearances at a funeral. Back home, we carefully reach for our darkest clothes, as though black somehow makes grief more visible. Here, I see people arriving straight from the olive groves with mud still clinging to their boots. Others come wearing a summer dress, work trousers or an apron that still carries the scent of the tomato sauce they had left simmering on the stove when the church bells began to ring. Nobody raises an eyebrow. What matters is not what you wear, what matters is that you are there.

After the service, the coffin is carried to the cemetery, where it disappears into the earth or is placed in one of the wall tombs that hold generations of the same family. A handshake is exchanged, a kiss on the cheek, a quiet embrace, and within minutes people return to their work, their gardens and their families. Life quietly resumes its place.

Over the past few years, I have helped several foreign families after the unexpected death of a husband or wife in Italy. As though grief itself were not complicated enough, it is often followed by an avalanche of paperwork. Death certificates need translating, land registry documents have to be obtained, bank accounts frozen, official papers legalised and, in some cases, a nulla osta from the embassy must be arranged before cremation or the transport of ashes back to the home country can take place.

Most people are unaware that, under the European Succession Regulation, the law governing an inheritance is generally that of the country where the deceased had their habitual residence, unless they explicitly chose the law of their nationality during their lifetime. For many expatriate families living in Italy, this can come as an unpleasant surprise. The Netherlands, meanwhile, has its own tax rules. Dutch nationals who emigrate remain liable for Dutch inheritance tax purposes for ten years after leaving the country. As a result, grieving families can suddenly find themselves navigating multiple legal systems and tax regimes at precisely the moment they are least able to cope with them. These are the things nobody likes to think about until, suddenly, they become unavoidable.

Curiously enough, all these encounters with death have not made me more pessimistic. Quite the opposite. They have reminded me just how precious an ordinary Tuesday afternoon really is. An espresso at the bar. A child falling asleep on your lap. The scent of jasmine drifting through a warm summer evening. A stranger returning your smile as you pass one another in a medieval alleyway.

My mother has always said that your last dress has no pockets. She is absolutely right. The most expensive watch remains on the bedside table. The most beautiful villa stays behind on the hillside. Bank accounts, titles and possessions that once seemed so important suddenly lose all meaning.

All I hope is that, when my own chair one day stands empty, the people I love will not only feel sadness, but will find themselves smiling through their tears at a memory we once shared.

In the end, we may leave behind no possessions that truly matter, only the traces we leave in the lives of others. A helping hand, a kind word or a shared laugh can ripple outward like circles on water, travelling quietly from one person to the next, often far beyond anything we will ever know.

And if, long after I am gone, my name can still bring a fleeting smile to someone’s face or inspire another small act of kindness, then I can think of no more beautiful form of immortality.