The Bell
The sound of life and death.
In small Greek villages, death rings a heavy, ancient bell.
Its sound moves through cobbled streets and stone houses. It settles in the leaves of old oaks and elms and slips into gullies and flowing streams. It reaches patched rooftops, jagged mountains, and into deep ravines. It seeps into kitchens, cafés, and taverns, announcing that death has visited this tiny place.
The bell sounds slowly, like dragging footsteps.
People stop. Heads lift from coffee cups, from fieldwork and fruit picking. Their gaze shifts upward with a quiet, weighted curiosity. Who has death come for on this biting, frosty day?
A deep breath is drawn. A small prayer is whispered.
Three fingers join and move quickly across the chest and shoulders in a cross. A familiar gesture of reverence. It is a gesture of reverence for the same eternity that gives life and calls it back, carried on the sound of the same heavy bell.
For a few brief moments, thoughts gather around one house, one name, one life bartered for another with this revered eternity. Roosters fall silent. Stray dogs stop barking. Sheep pause mid-call. The village holds a fragile stillness.
The bell carries its song across rooftops, over hills, and out toward the sea, cradling a life with it.
Here, people know death walks alongside life. They look upward, remain still, breathe their prayer, and then return to their day.
My father’s family emigrated from a tiny village Greece in 1919. My father was the youngest of five and the only one born in the United States. I still remember the first time I went to Greece and entered a small village. I met a big burly Greek man who had an amazing handle bar mustache. When I told him I was Greek he gave me this huge wonderful bear hug- I’ll never forget that feeling of belonging … that feeling of finding myself.
Capturing the movement of a sound and exploring what it touches - lovely and contemplative.