One of my earliest memories was the day our neighbor came and called my parents. There was a car accident just a few dozen yards from our house and they were looking for help, the driver seemed in a really bad state. Kids were instructed to stay in the house and they left.
Of course we couldn't stay home. We sneaked out, run through the orange groves and got as close as we could. Hiding behind the trees all we could discern was a Citroen nearly cut in half and people, loads of people. It was crazy but the driver could not be seen.
A few days after the accident a small mural, like a miniature church, sprung up next to the lamp post that stopped the car. The driver didn't make it.
Over the years I got used to them like everybody else. Greece has one of the highest rates of road accidents in Europe and roadside memorials are everywhere. Each one marks a death of a driver, a passenger, a pedestrian. Some are old and bent, others well kept and clean, with flowers or an image of the victim, a little glass of water and oil that keeps a flame of remembrance alive. Some of those memorials have been even crashed into again. And a new one has sprang up next door.
Getting used to them is one thing but no matter how much I try, I never manage to stop seeing them.
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