Memories of you erupt in the sweetness of the luscious strawberries from the little shop on the corner of Abovyan street where I lived. The sweetness of the chocolate ice cream at the cafe outside my window, where the water from the fountain tasted better than juice. Where the the laughter of the kids playing hide and seek and the sounds of the heels against the asphalt sounded better than music.
The days where the entire class would get in trouble for skipping the class to go to the park and indulge in freshly baked xachapuris fused with soft and warm cheese. The day that I got punished for disobeying my mother and diving into the backyard pool with tons of other kids from the neighborhood, I am sure that many felt the urge to let go, but the fun I had was worth the hour spent in the corner.
The days when my grandmother used to spoil us rotten by taking us to “Detski Mir” (Kid's World) to buy us our desired toy and then going to kino Moskva to watch an American movie. Unlike my mother, Grandma would never cover my eyes when the risque scenes used to appear on the big screen. We used to take a long walk to my Grandmas house where she would prolong our holiday with our favorite Roasted chicken and tea from “Samovar”. After dinner we would engage in a competitive card game and my fortune would be told by her neighbor across the street. Apparently I always had some “bear” in my cup which sometimes meant that some boy would capture my heart and some days that someone has an “achk” (eye) on me. Then we would really break the rules and I would stay up until the morning hours and yes it felt sweet to brake the rules.
Sevan was the place where we would have our picnics with 100 friends and family members. Diving into the freezing water of sevan only to return to the captivating smells of khorovats wrapped in moist pieces of lavash. And who can forget the charcoaled potatoes which my mother insisted on cleaning for us, although the point was that one has to eat the skin as well.
Memories of window watching where the rest of the neighborhood used to do the same and you would end up waving to each other to celebrate yet another day of meeting each other by our windows. Those long goodbyes in the living room, in the hallway, in the hallway of the building, outside in the backyard and a rain of kisses which left ones cheeks hollow. The memories of tut picking and clothes with stains so saturated that the only choice left was to throw them into bleach and wear them at home, the tongue purple and belly full from the sugary taste of tut.
Memories of the fresh fallen snow and the brisk wind of the fall. The memories of the young men squatting on the streets whistling at every skirt passing by. My naughty ways of avoiding my dinner by throwing it out of the window ending up with a victim screaming on top of his lungs with mashed potatoes making their way down his shirt.
The memories of the watermelon and cheese on a hot summer afternoon. Singing fountains interchanging the bright colors in May. The sound of a guitar echoing from our smoky living room. The memories of the piano my mother used to play when there was no electricity. The joy of having light and hot water, was a celebration worth popping a bottle of champagne only to have it shut down in an hour. The joy of smelling the mountain air and the shuffling through the garment of golden and orange leaves adorning the pavement of the streets. Memories of you...Hayastan.
Edited by anileve, 29 February 2004 - 01:48 AM.
