Grief comes in all shapes and sizes. Yep, you can look yours up, the psychologists have been hard at it over the years, defining them, putting them into different categories. Mine, you could say, would come under the banner of ‘delayed grief’, aka suppressed, although personally I’d separate the two. My grief was very much suppressed, it wasn’t like it wasn’t there, it was just buried. Too much trauma to deal with in one go. There one minute, gone in a nasty car crash the next. How does a twenty year old get their head around that, trying to comprehend, can’t comprehend, that they’re never going to see their big brother again, their rock. Like ever. And just to compound the situation, two years earlier my other rock had died, my grandma. So it’s no wonder that it’s taken me 37 years to go out to Rhodes and see for myself where my brother died, where the car crash took place. Until this year that is.
It was only three years ago that I began my creative sabbatical and unexpectedly found myself examining my life and more specifically what was buried; my grief and loss. Through digging down and delving into the dark; creating, writing, sitting, just being, followed by later embarking on bereavement counselling and then, who would have known, Bereavement Training, I’d worked through a lot. I’d had many a visual migraine along the way – the emotional tension being released, a neurological rewiring perhaps, but through it all I got to a place where I felt ready to embrace Rhodes. I felt keen, excited even, to see through my brother’s eyes the land where he wanted to live and work, and fundamentally make his home. I thought it best to fly out at the end of September once the holiday season was over, forgetting that the 29th was his anniversary, forgetting on a cerebral level I guess, not instinctively. I asked my oldest friend, who knew Mark, if she would come with me. It was something I didn’t particularly want to do alone. She would be honoured. What a relief! Held in the security of her arms I was free to feel in what I wanted to achieve out there. It was early April and I had the time and the space to let the permeations run through me.
I asked my mum for the inquest papers. I’d never read them before. For a few days the folder just sat there on my coffee table, staring at me. Slowly, over the next few days I opened it with dread, not knowing what I was going to find inside. There were papers in English, documents in Greek, a hand drawn sketchy diagram of the road where the crash took place. My goodness, a letter written in my brother’s hand, in Greek! There were even copies of his typed CV. I read through it, slowly savouring every detail before it abruptly came to an end, his life cut so short. And there, in graphic detail was the inquest report. I couldn’t read it, take any more in, that one would have to wait for now. My bereavement counsellor said we could read it together if I wanted. Yes, no, I took it to the following session but for whatever reason it didn’t emerge. I think it needed to be digested silently, with no time constraints. I felt so heavy and so sad.
Thinking about ritual and honouring Mark on his anniversary I felt at a bit of a loss. I had an image of the crash site formed in my mind, an image I’d conjured up based on my mum’s description of it (she’d already been, years ago), the police diagram, and of course let’s not forget Googlie. I’d gone up and down on that National 95 on Street View trying to find the 9km mark, where, after those first rains the car had skidded.
I felt a resonance with the elements, that would be a good starting place.
I opened the inquest report.
Mark had been stripped of all of the organs in his chest and abdominal area and if that wasn’t enough had shockingly been filled with sawdust. Sawdust! Like WTF! Is that even normal? I asked my counsellor and she said it was although not practiced in this country. What had they done to my poor brother? It felt like a macabre way of making a fifth character for the Wizard of Oz for God’s sake! I knew that some organs had been donated to others, some destroyed in the crash but what of the rest? It gave rise to thought that there could be someone out there right now, in Rhodes, who was walking around with my brother’s heart? Could there be? The thought cheered me up.
And so I set about lovingly recreating each organ, nine in all, in clay. They would need to be encased in something soft, cushioning, sawdust, of course! I contacted the Men’s Shed and asked for a donation – would that be possible? No problem, what’s it for? Well he did ask. And with an open and compassionate heart the man just listened whilst scooping the shavings into my cardboard box, filling it and asking if that was enough. It was, thank you so much.
I had my earth.
Mark’s sacred box of organ’s was coming to life, into a life of its own, guiding my hand. I decorated the outside with a timeline of photos of him, from a toddler to his young 24 year old self. I even found one he’d taken of Faliraki, from his hotel balcony perhaps? It suited the lid perfectly. Lavender collected from my garden was added to the sawdust, his organs delicately laid amongst it. An assortment of protective petals collected over the months sprinkled on top. The organs needed to be snug, I couldn’t have them rattling about as I carried them as hand luggage on the flight over, but there was still a gap between the petals and the lid. A hand sewn gold satin cushion was called for. Everything was falling into place. Being a bit of a Jesus iconography lover I’d also made two devotional scapulars with pink and gold embroidered hearts; one for me, one for Mark, together, sealing this divine box of love. Joy of joys I couldn’t have felt more content.
Next to come through were ribbons. I needed to go in search of ribbons. I collected them from second hand shops in Hastings and St Leonards and then a voice said Bexhill too, really? Yes, go. Looking in the haberdashery section (I know, amazing they had one right), I bumped into Lorraine and Nigel, oh my goodness, I hadn’t seen them since 2007, 19 years ago when I rented a studio from them in London, oh my days! What a joyous catch up we had. No ribbons to be found unfortunately but I asked the shop manager nonetheless – what are they for? she asked, ha, well, she did ask. Moved by my story she went out back shortly returning with an abundance in her arms, wowza! How kind of her, and, as it would happen her name just happened to be Ruth, the same as my dear friend who’d be coming to Rhodes with me.
The ribbons were arranged across one of my windows at home, first at one length then adjusted to another, the colours as they were being collected harmoniously complementing each other. My mum and friends who had known Mark were invited to add one is they wished. Unsure of what I’d ultimately tie them all to, trying this, trying that, nothing really working, I was reminded of just keeping it simple, it’s the intention that is the most important thing. I had some green polypropylene gardening twine, just plait it, it will be fine.
I had my air
Now for the water and the fire. What to do? Obviously I wasn’t going to be lighting candles anywhere near the arid land of the crash site, incense perhaps? Not sure, didn’t really sit well with me either. I had thought of collecting some sea water from Faliraki Beach, but then what, what would I do with it? My imagination went stratospheric thinking of alternative ideas. We could hire a boat, the sea would be the water element, the ribbons strung up on the awning blowing in the breeze. My recently found gold frond candelabra could hold the tea lights. I would release Mark’s organs to the ocean and somehow simultaniously film them underwater, dropping in slow motion to the seabed. We would already have been to the crash site, tied the devotional scapulars to a tree, a bush there, said a prayer and sung and danced to one of Mark’s favourite songs. And that’s where it was left. I bought a cheap faux Go-Pro, technical details could be worked out later.
Tuesday 29th September 2026
Ribbons packed, sacred organ box safely in my arms and a fine yellow rose picked from outside our hotel room, my rock of support, friends almost since birth, and I head out. The day has come.
The police report and sketchy diagram has marked out the area. We can see it, we’ve even passed it a couple of times already on our way into Rhodes Town. A busy double lane road with no pavement how do we get up onto the bank running alongside? My mind came to a stop, frozen, glitched. Ruth begins exploring a way through, up, over, around, whatever it may take. I trudge behind her. She senses I’m feeling like a compass with a swirl error, discombobulated. I pause, trying to make an effort to help and open Maps looking for an access point. Let go Lara, relinquish, Ruth has already told you that she is here, ‘at your service’ for whatever you may need for the entire week. Wait there, I’ll have a look up here, and enthusiastically off she scrambled up a dusty embankment disappearing into the pine trees beyond. It’s okay, I’ve found the way, there’s a path and it leads straight to where we need to be. A huge relief floods through my muscles, relaxing, the lightness returns and we’re on track. The joy that I felt; to be led, to be held, to not have to think, or problem solve, to be looked after.
What was to follow all happened of its own accord. There was more synchronicity and love in my whole being, in the air, in the atmosphere than you can ever imagine. We came to a telegraph post and its stay wire perfectly situated overlooking the road, we could string the ribbons between them. But the twine wasn’t long enough! We have my belt, said Ruth, glowing. Long and hand made from fabric she’d only brought it out just in case she’s needed to tie her hat down, it’d been so windy the day before. But we’d still need a bit more length and I couldn’t be undoing the done and take ribbons off the strand. Would it be okay to use Nancy’s? Only having received it the day before flying out and the ribbons already having being packed it wasn’t tied on yet. It wouldn’t flutter with the rest which I felt unhappy about, especially because of the story attached to it, but without it the others wouldn’t fly. Decision taken we strung up the strand and what a feeling to see all of the ribbons free, flying in the air, mesmerising, glinting, overlapping, touching, their shadows joining in on the dance, the effervescence of life. We felt so wowed, wrapped in the magic, the love and the divine.
Next to take out, the organ box, the petals first released like a cleansing to the wind. They chose their spot, unbeknownst to me an area surrounded by almost camouflaged, tall, single stemmed flowers. My hands moved at speed laying each organ on the ground in a circle, it’s where they wanted to be. The sawdust adorning, sheltering, the rose, a rock, the devotional scapulas and a shell later added by Ruth, all laid on the earth, the earth that bore witness. In amongst the exhilaration a little cry release. It was Ruth who noticed the flowers framing, our wondrous eyes locked asking, could this be anymore perfect? And look, two of them entwined. Mark, oh you are there, we can feel you, almost hear you laughing, enjoying, participating in the celebration, sending us one sign after another. The remaining sawdust scattered to the wind, we stood and absorbed, breathing in the love, locked in to the movement of the ribbons, the organ shrine, reflecting. And through the ribbons over the main road to the slip road beyond, a Land Rover Ruth cried, just like Mark’s, oh the excitement. I wanted to go there, see the ribbons from a distance, how did they look from the other side of the road? But first let’s gather some soil. I’d wanted to empty Mark’s box in Rhodes but also to fill it, to bring back some treasures; some little bits of nature and whatever else may appear. I filled my little jar and laid it gentle on the gold satin cushion.
Back in the car and about to pull out onto the national Ruth glances up to the mini hoardings that we’d been sheltered by on the corner of the bank, pointing to one of a kitten leaning into a puppy she said look, it’s just like the photo of you and Mark. Pure joy.
Driving up and around to get to the other side of the main road we parked up alongside a compact little shop with benches and tables outside, and oh my days, a bag of fire wood with a really cool graphic image on it of a log fire, and a fountain! Could there be anymore synchronicity?! I opened the tap, it worked! and let the cool water pour over my hands.
And there we had our water.
I was hoping they might sell some American Spirit tobacco, two shops I’d asked in on previous days didn’t have anything I particularly liked, for my occasional smoke. On entering the shop I was struck at yet more synchronicity – this time Lucky Bags hung either side of the door, the girls one on the left showing a girl on a jet-ski. I laughed so much, Ruth look! It was the business my brother had wanted to set up out here. We were glowing.
The lovely woman inside listed off many brands, but no American Spirit. Perhaps I could go with Lucky Stripe, until she got to Pueblo, oh my days you have Pueblo! Yes, three types. Of course she does. Ruth at my side beams a massive smile at me, no words needed at she shows me a tiger stripped lighter. We have our fire. With a drink each, yes, I drank wine through a straw, haha, we sat outside and for the last part of the ritual I smoked a cigarette, in honour of my brother, who also liked to smoke, and to complete what had been the most awe inspiring, loved up experience. We watched as the ribbons blew over the road, settled into their new home. I could have stayed there for hours, days, forever. But lunch called, and the most perfect restaurant, with the most perfect views overlooking the most perfect bay, which just happened to be called Anthony Quinn Bay, with the most perfect friend, who’d done everything possible to make sure I was being held in just exactly the way I needed to be. It was her who spoke out when a window table for two became available and had us moved from inside to the best vistas in the house, again, my voice had gone. At my service she had said and was, a massive cheers to her and a massive cheers to us and to me, for creating the most love filled ceremonial celebration possible for my brother, Mark Anthony James Tremayne.
