Today, April 21st, 2025, at 7:35 in the morning, Europe came to a halt. And with it, the world. The people’s Pope—the first Argentine Pope in history, our Francisco—closed his eyes forever.

Jorge Mario Bergoglio was born on December 17th, 1936, in Buenos Aires, the son of Piedmontese immigrants. He was a chemical technician, a worker, a teacher, but above all, a man of faith. He entered the Jesuit seminary in 1958 and was ordained a priest in 1969. From then on, his life became synonymous with commitment to the most humble, the forgotten, those whom the system tends to leave on the margins. It was in 2013 when we first heard that announcement that gave us goosebumps: “Habemus Papam.” And there, from that balcony in Rome, the world met Francisco. “They came to get me from the end of the world,” he said, with that humility so typical of him. And yes, he was ours.

And in that moment, we knew: something was going to change.

He was revolutionary, yes. But not because he sought rupture, rather because he wanted to return to the center: the living Gospel. With him, the Church began walking with its feet on the ground again. He created the Pontifical Commission for the Protection of Minors and reformed internal laws that had previously been untouchable. He modernized the structure of the Vatican, cleaned up financial scandals, and spoke without fear about issues the Church had long avoided: structural poverty, climate change, inequality, migration, violence against women, the LGBTQ+ community, and the role of women in the ecclesiastical sphere.

His voice reached places many others dared not go. Laudato si’, his encyclical on caring for the planet, is now a reference text even in secular forums. Fratelli tutti, another of his legacies, reminded us that fraternal love can be a global policy.

Yesterday, Easter Sunday, while I was having lunch at home in Puglia with the TV on, I heard him give his final blessing. I didn’t know it would be the last, but something in his voice, in his expression, stayed with me all day. And this morning, while I was receiving visitors, I looked at the clock: it was 7:30. At that very moment, Francisco was departing this world.

As an Argentine in Italy, I felt the duty to write these words. Not out of obligation, but out of gratitude. Because we are 8.09 billion people, and one of the bravest, humblest, and wisest said goodbye today.

Francisco was the Pope of simple gestures:
the Pope who embraced everyone without asking where they came from or who they loved. The Pope who spoke to the world in the language of compassion.

And now, the Church loses a leader, but the world gains an eternal legend. “I’m going to heaven with God. I’ve taken care of your house and your people all my life,” I imagine him whispering as he departs. And I, from this little corner of southern Italy, reply: Grazia mille, Francisco.

Thank you for carrying our flag with dignity and tenderness. Thank you for making history not by raising your voice, but by lifting your soul. For blending Argentina’s sky blue with the Vatican’s yellow. For walking barefoot among the people and reminding us that faith has no borders or labels.

Per sempre, Francisco.