Like Water on Stone by Dana Walrath Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dana Walrath
least you
must miss
Anahid.
Yes.
Misak and
Kevorg too.
This carpet
full of birds
will be yours.
You can take it
to America.
I’ll never go now.
You will.
You’ll see.
You’ll go soon.
Take the red now.
For the background.
That’s right.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Snip.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Snip.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Ardziv
Soldiers were close again.
I flew tight circles around the mill.
Papa stood outside looking up,
shaking his head.
I hovered in the air above him
as he reached both hands
into the sky,
spread his five fingers
toward me,
through me,
palms up,
open to the sky.
“Forgive me.
I was wrong.
I fear my sons are dead.
Their spirits come to me
each night.
No land is worth
a child’s life.
Protect them.
Please.
The ones who still live.”
Then he drew his palms
back into fists,
his eyes still high in the sky,
looking through me,
and he pulled these fists
down to his gut.
I landed on a lower branch,
a silent witness.
He raised his arms to the sky again,
opened his palms,
then pulled both open hands
down to his heart.
Then he touched the ground
with his right hand,
kissed the back of his hand,
then forehead,
chest,
left,
right,
and let his hand rest
on his heart,
his eyes and mouth
squeezed shut,
taking no breath
for one long minute.
He swallowed.
Breath came again.
His eyes opened
and met mine.
He shivered.
He bowed
his head
to his chest
and went
inside.
I made a promise
to the empty sky.
These three young ones
would not die.
Sosi
I rise before the sun,
before Mama can say no,
and go to the river
to see my vines.
I fill a basket with leaves
for dolma .
They must be picked
while still bright green
and supple,
each leaf the size of my palm
plucked from below
the new growth.
The apricots are hard and green
but soaking in the sun.
Soon they will be ripe.
Soon I’ll be an auntie.
Mama’s pacing on the roof when I return.
She takes the leaves from me and then,
as though we’ve never made dolma before,
as though I have not picked the leaves myself,
she tells me,
“They must be bright green
or else they’ll be too tough.”
She sets the black pot on the rooftop fire,
salted water inside it for blanching.
We excise the stems with sharp knives.
We set the leaves in the pot to wilt,
then pull them out to cool.
Mama mixes the filling.
Rice, olive oil, allspice,
cinnamon, and mint from the edge
of our stream.
“Roll them tight, Sosi jan ,
tight as you can, Sosi jan .
Fold the leaf edge in
as you roll, Sosi jan ,
so the rice
stays trapped
inside.”
Shahen
I wake before dawn
to church bells,
an urgent shake.
Mama, Papa, a goat,
and the butchering knife.
Papa says, “Bring your sisters to the highest field.
Tell them you are checking on the sheep.
Don’t come back
unless we come for you.
Wait till it quiets,
then go south
to Aleppo.
“Stay high in the mountains,
heading southwest
till you see the desert
from the ridge.
Be careful when you cross the Euphrates.
Trust no one
till Aleppo.
Find the Forty Martyrs Church.
The Soorp Hayr there
helped your keri
get to New York.”
He holds me for one second.
He wakes the girls.
Mama wraps a vest around me,
pulls me close in one motion, saying,
“Wear this.
It will keep you full
and safe.”
My head fits
into the curve
between Mama’s head and body.
We pull in one breath together.
She pushes me away, looks me right in the eyes.
“You are very young to be a man.
Take good care of your sisters.
Now go.”
Mama wraps Sosi and Mariam
each in a new vest,
her hug squeezing
all breath from them.
Papa pulls her back,
puts Mariam in my arms,
adds a double knot
to the laces of the charukh
enveloping her feet.
“Go now. They are coming.”
“Who?” Mariam says.
Mama takes the pot from the table.
Papa pushes us through the door.
Mama follows.
Papa grips the goat
must miss
Anahid.
Yes.
Misak and
Kevorg too.
This carpet
full of birds
will be yours.
You can take it
to America.
I’ll never go now.
You will.
You’ll see.
You’ll go soon.
Take the red now.
For the background.
That’s right.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Snip.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Snip.
Over, under,
back, and tie.
Ardziv
Soldiers were close again.
I flew tight circles around the mill.
Papa stood outside looking up,
shaking his head.
I hovered in the air above him
as he reached both hands
into the sky,
spread his five fingers
toward me,
through me,
palms up,
open to the sky.
“Forgive me.
I was wrong.
I fear my sons are dead.
Their spirits come to me
each night.
No land is worth
a child’s life.
Protect them.
Please.
The ones who still live.”
Then he drew his palms
back into fists,
his eyes still high in the sky,
looking through me,
and he pulled these fists
down to his gut.
I landed on a lower branch,
a silent witness.
He raised his arms to the sky again,
opened his palms,
then pulled both open hands
down to his heart.
Then he touched the ground
with his right hand,
kissed the back of his hand,
then forehead,
chest,
left,
right,
and let his hand rest
on his heart,
his eyes and mouth
squeezed shut,
taking no breath
for one long minute.
He swallowed.
Breath came again.
His eyes opened
and met mine.
He shivered.
He bowed
his head
to his chest
and went
inside.
I made a promise
to the empty sky.
These three young ones
would not die.
Sosi
I rise before the sun,
before Mama can say no,
and go to the river
to see my vines.
I fill a basket with leaves
for dolma .
They must be picked
while still bright green
and supple,
each leaf the size of my palm
plucked from below
the new growth.
The apricots are hard and green
but soaking in the sun.
Soon they will be ripe.
Soon I’ll be an auntie.
Mama’s pacing on the roof when I return.
She takes the leaves from me and then,
as though we’ve never made dolma before,
as though I have not picked the leaves myself,
she tells me,
“They must be bright green
or else they’ll be too tough.”
She sets the black pot on the rooftop fire,
salted water inside it for blanching.
We excise the stems with sharp knives.
We set the leaves in the pot to wilt,
then pull them out to cool.
Mama mixes the filling.
Rice, olive oil, allspice,
cinnamon, and mint from the edge
of our stream.
“Roll them tight, Sosi jan ,
tight as you can, Sosi jan .
Fold the leaf edge in
as you roll, Sosi jan ,
so the rice
stays trapped
inside.”
Shahen
I wake before dawn
to church bells,
an urgent shake.
Mama, Papa, a goat,
and the butchering knife.
Papa says, “Bring your sisters to the highest field.
Tell them you are checking on the sheep.
Don’t come back
unless we come for you.
Wait till it quiets,
then go south
to Aleppo.
“Stay high in the mountains,
heading southwest
till you see the desert
from the ridge.
Be careful when you cross the Euphrates.
Trust no one
till Aleppo.
Find the Forty Martyrs Church.
The Soorp Hayr there
helped your keri
get to New York.”
He holds me for one second.
He wakes the girls.
Mama wraps a vest around me,
pulls me close in one motion, saying,
“Wear this.
It will keep you full
and safe.”
My head fits
into the curve
between Mama’s head and body.
We pull in one breath together.
She pushes me away, looks me right in the eyes.
“You are very young to be a man.
Take good care of your sisters.
Now go.”
Mama wraps Sosi and Mariam
each in a new vest,
her hug squeezing
all breath from them.
Papa pulls her back,
puts Mariam in my arms,
adds a double knot
to the laces of the charukh
enveloping her feet.
“Go now. They are coming.”
“Who?” Mariam says.
Mama takes the pot from the table.
Papa pushes us through the door.
Mama follows.
Papa grips the goat