I wish I had been there.

I wish I could have been there to see him when he was young, talk to him, see his mother –  see his mother, my grandmother.

She died when she was only 27 years old.  He was only 6.

I have been spending some precious time listening to my dad’s stories.  I am documenting them.   There is still a lot to do.  This is only the very beginning of the beginning.  We have only just started.  I am not even sure what I will do with his stories and Mama’s stories.  A novel?  A short story?  A keepsake for me.  For us. Whatever it is, I just love sitting at their feet and listening to them speak, remember, recall, share.  I love this.   I have always loved listening to other’s stories…

Oh, Dad.  What a life you have had.  What a journey!   Whenever I sing the Armenian folk song, the lullaby, Oror, Dad tells me he thinks of his own mom.  “I remember praying to God that He would bring my mom back to life,” Dad tells me wistfully.  “I would pray this prayer every. single. night.”

I try to hold back my tears.

I try to imagine that, understand that – a little boy praying every night that his beloved Mom would come back to life.  The repetition of it.  The ache.  The depth of belief.  The innocence and the complexity.  The desire for a restored world.

“I only have a fading memory of what she looked like…”  His already gentle voice grows even softer.   I know this pains him.  I know he wishes he could remember more.   But he was so young.

I wish I could have been there.

We’ll see her again, Daddy.  You know we will.

Tags: Armenian folk songs, death, Grandmothers, innocence, Oror, prayer