In August 1992, I vacationed on the Greek island of Corfu for about a month. I rented a motorcycle and headed into the island's interior in search of isolated trails and sleepy villages. I rode for hours along dirt paths flanked by bright yellow wildflowers, over steep and rugged hills, and past wide fields where farmers struggled to grow anything in the barren, rocky soil. I had to watch the gas gauge closely, as the only station was back in the village where I'd rented the bike. At half a tank, I had no choice but to turn back.
The needle had just hit halfway when I noticed an old cemetery in the distance, far from any sign of habitation. I decided to stretch my legs before the long ride back. I rode to the gate, killed the engine, and laid the bike down. Passing through the creaky, wrought iron gate, I was struck by the profound silence. I whistled to reassure myself I hadn't gone deaf. Only a few hours of daylight remained, and a strong wind stirred the overgrown grass that partially obscured the scattered tombstones.
In Greece, the deceased are often not buried underground. They are usually laid to rest in above-ground marble tombs with lids that can be lifted or slid aside. This tugged at my heart more than anything—to see their faces as they were in life, with warm smiles and kind eyes. I spent a long time wandering, kneeling in the grass beside graves, talking to those lying there and wondering about their lives.
At the rear edge of the cemetery, an unusual sight caught my eye: a tomb twice as large as any other. Looking inside its cabinet, I understood why. There was a photograph of a young couple, arms around each other, laughing. The dates of death etched in the stone were identical. Apparently, they were married and had died together in an accident. They had been laid in each other's arms inside the tomb. I cannot fully describe my feelings upon seeing that picture—their youthful energy, eager smiles full of excitement and anticipation for their life together.
A line from Andrew Marvell's poem came to mind: "The grave's a fine and private place, / But none, I think, do there embrace." I hoped it wasn't true.
A white marble cross marking their grave had been broken off at the base—perhaps by vandals or lightning—and lay on the ground at the head of the tomb. Small, orange wildflowers grew around it. This would not have been so unusual except that they were the only flowers growing anywhere in the cemetery. The contrast between these symbols of life and springtime beside a symbol of death was so striking that I decided to photograph it.
I took my camera from my backpack and searched for a good angle but couldn't find one. The best view would be from atop the tomb, looking straight down at the cross, but I felt standing on it would be disrespectful. After taking a few unsatisfying shots from other angles, I addressed the young couple buried there: "Excuse me. I mean no disrespect, but I'd like to stand on your tomb for just a second to take a picture of your flowers. I hope you don't mind."
Hoping for their approval, I stood on the lid and took the photo from the desired angle. I recall no sudden cold sensations or chills beyond those already riddled by my overactive imagination. I stepped down, said thank you, and before leaving, picked up their cross and fitted it back into place. The break was clean, and it settled like a puzzle piece.
The sun was setting fast, and I worried about finding my way back in the dark, so I decided to head home. I walked through the creaky old gate again and kick-started the motorcycle. After being immersed in such profound silence for so long, the engine's noise seemed louder than ever.