Journey to Armenia

 

Journey to Armenia

Her posture, a question mark.
Her neck, a withered stalk as she peers up at me.
First, a flicker of fear. Then seeing my tool belt
she smiles. A scar like a dried fig from eye to jaw.
The world has run roughshod on this tiny old woman.

Pointing at the baseboard heater, she folds
arms over chest, shivers in drama.
“Okay,” I say. “I get it.”
With screwdriver and flashlight I kneel
on a soft rug, exquisite patterns. She points
at a dragon under my knee, says “Vishapagorg.”
“Huh?” I say. Curtains thick as carpets
shut out the courtyard, neighbors, society.

A nudge on my arm. Holding a tray
of baklava and apricots, she says, “Take.”
In a minute she’s back with a tiny cup. “Take.”
Brew so thick that if you spilled, the coffee
would not splash. It would shatter.

Quickly I’m crazy with sugar and caffeine,
and the heater is fixed. I kneel over the baseboard,
rubbing my hands in a pantomime of heat.
She grasps my face between her fingers. She beams,
nodding her head. It’s a thank you. And more.
Be nice, she seems to say, and conquer evil.

Opening the door, she sends me outside
with my tool belt and work boots
to the bright sunlight of California, USA.

…..

First published in Dove Tales

*Vishapagorg, I found out later, means dragon.