Driving through the gates
Of this sleeping place,
We pass potter’s field
and turn up the hill
Dotted with flat, tipped stones
Toward the Armenian section.
When Yankee names turn Greek
We know we’re close to the place
Where an underground suite holds
Bone and dust in separate boxes
Capped by granite dotted with moss and lichen
That we scrape off with our shoes.
We run away down a hill and move among graves,
Alert for ancient letters that form names
Chiseled as they were in the old country.
We shout when another ancestor is found.
We read names out loud.
We take photos of headstones.
We are buoyant and alive,
Still visitors in this place
Where faint murmur and hum
Draw us closer together
Like children preparing to hold hands.
Georgi Bargamian
Georgi Bargamian is a freelance writer of news, opinion and poetry, focusing on themes of loss, longing, identity and heritage. She is also a community volunteer trying to do her part for the realization of a free, united and independent Armenia.
Latest posts by Georgi Bargamian (see all)
- Measuring depth with the drop of a stone at Dudan Gorge - September 3, 2024
- After Ardahan: Reflections on a journey to the homeland - July 23, 2024
- Greater Detroit ARS Zavarian School welcomes students back to class - September 12, 2023
A beautiful soliloquy of what is beyond an arbitrary gate that bridges life and eternity
Thank you for bringing forth in words all of our unspoken cherished experiences
Wonderful expression of the essence of our collective experience in the hallowed graveyard.