As I tumble down the slick rock face with hail stinging my face, I think that this really must be it. The end. Not how I expected things to end, but okay… There is still a lot left undone – bummer. But also there is a lot I got to do – just this morning I was writing how blessed my life really was. My body tries to fight off gravity and find something to hang onto while sliding inevitably down, down, down. It’s both in slow motion and happening in fractions of seconds. And another thought pops into my head – when exactly did I start hating heights?
I am 12: my knees are skinned and scabbed over and skinned again. I pick the scabs, and blood runs down my dirty shins, and my knees never heal. My hair is dirty and stringy – with no running water washing it is a production and absolutely not a priority. It’s school vacation, and the first thing I do when I wake up every morning is run 13 stories down and into the street and figure out what to occupy myself with today.
Summer comes early to Yerevan. The streets are full of voices of children playing, older men seeking refuge in the shade of apricot trees, counting out their backgammon games, street vendors advertising their wares (brooms, ice cream, knife and scissor sharpening), and fine dust that gets stirred up into the air by the wind that descends off the mountains every evening. The dust gets into everything, seeps into every crack, and leaves a fine coating on every piece of furniture, even with the windows firmly shut. Sparrows circle the old gray Soviet-construction cement block buildings and chatter excitedly, catching bugs mid-flight. My street is illuminated by the iridescent orange glow of the sun tumbling into the Hrazdan river gorge. All nice summer evenings are supervised by the BBC network of the neighborhood ladies in their housecoats, hanging out of their windows or off their balconies, eating sunflower seeds, and minding everyone’s business. This is how I’ll get busted dating for the first time at 14. But at the moment, I’m 12, with scabbed knees, stringy hair, a mean badminton high serve, and the best friends a girl could wish for.
Continue reading “Pack… Mulberries”
Packing List for Immigration 