My mother passed away on March 28, 2023, after eighteen years of illness. Her name was Serenella.

In her ID, she was defined as a "cleaner," because she always cleaned the large buildings, staircases, courtyards, and parking lots of Treviso. She cleaned without sparing herself, then she would pick me up from school with the Ciao moped that she would start by pedaling. She alternated a series of identical tank tops, almost like a uniform. I remember her sweaty and happy.

In the months following her death, I photographed her workplaces, where she used to take me when I was little. It was like group therapy, where instead of a therapist, there were the building administrators, and instead of patients, there were the tenants, with a generous memory of her.

I couldn't just show up in the apartment buildings with a camera around my neck without permission, so for each place, I looked for a point of contact: a building administrator, an old friend, a former schoolmate who lived there. I made a list, and like on a pilgrimage to sacred places, I visited them all.