Even in death, your teeth remain flawlessly intact. I find myself standing beside your open grave, six long years after you departed from my life. Across from me stands the gravedigger, patiently awaiting my presence. Filled with suspicion, I accuse him of intentionally removing your bones prematurely, without waiting for my arrival. All I can see within the pit is an endless expanse of dirt, devoid of any trace of your remains.
Eftyhios, a name that signifies joy and happiness in Greek, reassures me, saying, “No, he is here, look.” With over two decades of experience as a gravedigger in this Athens cemetery, he possesses extensive knowledge regarding decomposed bones. I hand him a bottle of red wine, chlorine, powdered soap, and a white bedsheet, items I was instructed to procure. I found myself shedding tears in the supermarket as I collected these items, realizing that this would be my final purchase for you.
I peer into the pit, adopting the disposition of a weary archaeologist, almost failing to notice what lies right before my eyes – bones buried deep within the earth. I observe torn shreds of lace, remnants of the coffin lid. Longer bones mark the spots where your arms once were, those very arms that once cradled me so tenderly. And then, I spot more: a jawbone, ribs, and thigh bones – remnants of your strong thighs that once embraced me so possessively.
From that very jawbone, words once flowed effortlessly – words of affection and farewell at airports and ferry docks, comforting whispers as we drifted into slumber. For thirty years, I listened intently to your voice, but now, as I stand here, numb beside your grave, I struggle to recollect the sound that once brought me solace.
In Greece, it is customary to exhume the bones of our loved ones after three years, owing to limited burial space. It is a rarity to receive a two- or three-year extension. I conjured up numerous excuses to delay this process. I informed the authorities about distant relatives who couldn’t travel from New York to support me during this distressing event, or my elderly parents who couldn’t be left alone in Andros and relied on my care. These reasons were valid, and they bought me some time. I paid exorbitant fees to ensure you remained where you were.
However, the urgency for new gravesites arose due to the pandemic. The cemetery was facing space constraints, leaving me with no option but to relinquish this site for someone else’s use. A public servant from the municipality called me, issuing a menacing threat. He declared, “If you fail to come to Athens and handle your husband’s remains, we will open the grave in your absence and place the bones in a box.”
Stranded on the island of Andros, amidst a complete lockdown, I mustered the courage to respond, “I am a reporter. If you dare disturb a single pebble from his grave, I will expose you.” Not long after, a compassionate individual from the municipality phoned me, expressing their apologies. They assured me that there was no immediate need to exhume your bones. We would discuss the matter once travel restrictions were lifted.
I expressed my gratitude through tear-filled words. Was it gruesome? Perhaps, but I yearned for something tangible to hold onto – a keepsake of you. And this small bone, soaked in wine and left to dry, would have to suffice.
According to the municipality, I was initially led to believe that I could bring the box containing your remains with me on the same day. I had planned to embark on the evening ferry to Andros, with you accompanying me throughout this final journey. Unfortunately, that information was incorrect. I must now wait for several weeks until the health department grants their seal of approval before I can transport your bones elsewhere. The journey back to my sanctuary must be undertaken alone, without all of you.
As we sail towards Andros, I save no seat for you. Instead, I keep you close, safely tucked away in my bag. Together, we gaze at the moon emerging from behind the Attica mountains, witnessing its golden reflection create a luminous pathway, guiding us on this last voyage.
Upon reaching the island, I begin the long drive home. Along the way, I catch a glimpse of the whitewashed stairs leading to the village church – the same church where we exchanged our vows three decades ago. Our union was celebrated within those sacred walls, the very same church where my grandmother Amalia was married and where my mother was christened. I ache for you intensely. Grief never fades; it resides alongside me as I navigate through life, as I pour my heart into my art, and even in moments of laughter. Yes, laughter has returned, please know that.
As I round the final bend on the road leading to Apikia village, the magnificent Tourlitis lighthouse, perched upon the sea, comes into view. I count the intervals between its beaming flashes. Any sailor can determine their location by these guiding lights.
Now, that lighthouse serves as my beacon. I turn to it during moments of despair, and even in moments of hope, during the winter and fall seasons, as well as in the throes of summer, when the house brims with the presence of close friends and family. I cannot have you physically present in this life or in our shared home, which you built for us. Yet, I do possess a part of you within our child and cherish the memories we created as a deeply enamored couple.
Upon arriving home, the first thing I do is open a bottle of exquisite red wine – one that you and I would have relished together. I pour myself a glass and pour a little over the finger bone resting in your wine glass. I allow the wine to seep into the bone, a symbolic gesture of communion. And as I raise my glass in a toast…
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