‘The old wooden door to the small whitewashed church was locked. Beyond the sheer rock the tiny building was nestled into, and off to the right along a grassy slope, was a cave. That’s where my ceremony took place. Just the two of us, Kevin and I, accompanied by the spirits of place, the sound of my tiny rattle and a whitish yellow candle stump that had burned lower and lower over the last three days.
It was the first anniversary of Kevin’s passing and I had asked Chrysoula and her young cousin Thodwris to be at a church – any church – at noon, to light this candle. Twelve o’clock midday was the time they turned Kevin’s hospital machines off. We drove up to the remote Greek church of Agioi Anargyroi with only a few minutes to spare. Set high above the Monemvasia shoreline and tucked into a perpendicular rock face, this little church is famous for two healers, the Holy Apostles, who were sainted for the miracles they performed and for curing the incurable without profit. It seemed appropriate.
Later, after a delicious homemade lunch, at Thodwris’s home, something strange happened. Thodwris, a talented bouzouki player, started to strum an old Greek folk song and my friend Chrysoula, a professional singer, sang along whilst doing the washing up. Their rendition of Pira Ap To Xeri Sou Nero was hauntingly beautiful. Sat outside on a foot-worn step, a mysterious presence seemed to enter my body. It appeared to be listening inside of me.’
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