Greece & Grace – Part 2

My parents dropped my Yiayia and me off at the airport and said goodbye.

I was finally heading to Greece.

Three months to enjoy the European summer and skip the worst of the Melbourne winter.

I’ve always hated the cold.

Catch ya later, Melbourne.

We were sitting on the plane, engines running, about to take off.

I looked over at Yiayia and saw her making the sign of the holy cross, praying softly.

I laughed. I thought it was funny.

She went to church often, but it never really resonated with me.

I couldn’t speak Greek, so I never understood what was being said.

We had a stopover in Doha. While we waited, I left Yiayia briefly to stretch my legs and find a restroom.

When I came back, I couldn’t believe what I saw, she was surrounded by about ten women, all in burqas.

I walked over and said, “Is everything alright?”

They looked at me, jumped up, and all ran away.

I sat down beside her. “All good?” I asked, giving her a thumbs up.

She smiled. She didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak Greek so whatever had just passed between them… it hadn’t been through language.

We landed in Greece and were picked up by my mum’s cousin, Costa.

We were headed to Agios Vasileios, a beachside village near Patras.

On the way, Costa was on the phone, organising food. He asked me what kind of meat I liked.

I said, “I don’t eat meat.”

He looked at me with pure astonishment but didn’t say a word.

When we arrived at the village, we went straight to my mum’s uncle and aunt’s house.

Some cousins were there to greet us, but something felt different. This wasn’t a normal reunion.

In the kitchen, my mum’s uncle, my grandfather’s brother was lying in a bed, hooked up to machines.

It was clear he was near the end.

I didn’t know what to think.

I’d only met him once, years ago, when he visited Australia.

But I went over, took his hand, he woke up, looked at me, and started crying.

I had tears in my eyes too.

I knew exactly why I was here.

I was representing my family.

My grandfather had sent me.

After a few days, I was in the city of Patra when my cousin called me.

She asked where I was.

I told her I was on the train, about to head back.

She said, “Come home now.”

Her voice sounded off, upset. Serious.

I got back to the village as fast as I could.

When I walked in, I saw my mum’s aunty wailing.

Her husband, my mum’s uncle had passed away.

The house was full of activity.

Funeral arrangements were already being made.

Everything was moving fast.

At one point during the funeral, I was sitting in a side room just off the kitchen.

The house was full wall to wall with people, all dressed in black.

I sat at a table with my cousins, close to the doorway with a clear view into the main room.

And then… I saw her.

A woman glided past the doorway.

She wasn’t walking.

She wore a green dress.

And she held a bright new pink handbag.

I didn’t feel fear.

But I got up and walked outside to check.

Nothing. No one.

I sat back down. My cousin noticed and asked what was wrong.

“I just saw a ghost,” I said.

She blinked.

“What?”

I told her exactly what I saw, the green dress, the pink handbag, the way she moved.

She stared at me, stunned. Then got up and told the rest of the family.

They knew immediately.

That was my great-grandmother.

She had been buried in a green dress with a brand new pink handbag they’d bought for her the day she passed.

I couldn’t have known that.

Nobody had told me.

Nobody had spoken of it.

But she came.

She came for her son.