THE GIFT

By Knarik O. Meneshian

It was the fifth of January. On this night, alone in the village cemetery, a man sat on a stump with his head down. He slipped his bare, rough hands into his frayed coat pockets to warm them, but there was no escaping the frigid air that quickly found its way to his hands. He looked up at the sky—the stars were glimmering silver and the moon was shimmering gold. He stared for a moment at their opulent luster and then at the snow-dusted trees in the distance. Icicles were hanging from the branches. He gazed at them and whispered, “Oh, if somehow I could have captured their glimmer and given them to her.” The man shook his head as he slowly rose and lumbered down the winding path towards home, a humble cottage on the mountainside. He passed the church; except for the sounds of the choir singing sharagans (hymns), all was quiet. He stopped to listen for a moment, and then took a long, deep breath as he continued on his way. “The church no doubt is full,” he whispered to himself. “After all, it is Christmas Eve.”

After services, the procession of churchgoers would begin, silently returning to their homes holding lit candles. What a wondrous sight it was—the warm glow of candles illuminating the darkness! This was Jrakalooyts. Each year he looked forward to this tradition, which came on the Eve’s of Christmas and Easter, but not this year. As he treaded through the snow, the winds, having died down earlier, picked up again. The landscape had grown whiter and deeper with the previous day’s snow. By the time he reached his house, he was thoroughly chilled and covered from head to foot with blowing snow. He stopped for a moment to look at the light coming from the lantern in his window. It was weak. He sighed with weariness and a heaviness of the heart as he brushed off as much snow as he could before entering his house.

“Akh (Oh), Aregnaz!” he whispered as he hung his coat over the chair near the door, just like she had always done for him.

“Baba (Papa),” I have made jash (dinner) for you. Come, sit here by the fire!” said his son in a low, respectful tone.

Vahram looked at the boy child. He could not believe that he was already ten years old—and motherless again. Sadness gripped his heart for the child and for his Aregnaz. The boy was their blessing, especially hers, after their twin daughters had died shortly after birth, and later their three-year-old son. It was a fever that had taken his life. Several weeks later, the mayor of the village, accompanied by his wife carrying an infant in her arms, had paid the grieving couple a visit. He remembered the day so well… “Voghjooyn dzez (Greetings to you), Vahram jan (dear), Aregnaz. We hope we are not disturbing you,” the mayor had said. “Just a while ago a woman from the neighboring village brought this baby to us. She said she knew not who his parents were, only that it was left on the doorsteps of an elderly couple’s house. We immediately thought of you. Do you think you might want him?”

Aregnaz had sighed at the sight of the infant wrapped in swaddling clothes. Upon hearing the mayor’s words she had reached for the sleeping infant, hugged him, inhaled his sweet scent as she gently cradled him in her arms, while Vahram had stoically stood by, not even glimpsing at the infant. How could the mayor even think we would want another’s child, he had thought? But that thought was forgotten the moment he saw the light return in Aregnaz’s eyes.

“In the name of The Father and The Son and The Holy Spirit…” Their new son had been christened Narek.

Now it was Aregnaz who was gone. Vahram looked around the one-room home and wondered, How could this be possible? She was here just a few days ago joyously preparing the Amanor Seghan (New Year’s Table). We were here together with family and friends, eating and drinking, singing and laughing.

We bid farewell to the Old Year and welcomed the New Year by eating Aregnaz’s freshly baked toneer bread—half on December 31 and the other half on New Year’s Day. The next morning, she had a fever and by evening she was gone. “Akh,” moaned Vahram as he walked wearily towards Narek, who was standing near the hearth. He put his hand on the small boy’s shoulder and said, “Thank you, my son, but I cannot eat right now. Let me sit here by myself for a while. Go to Uncle’s house.”

“Ayo (Yes), Baba,” said the boy obediently and put on his coat. “I will return a little later.” Soulfully, he looked back at his father, and then quietly shut the door behind him.

Vahram pulled his chair towards the hearth and stared at the flames. He remembered his wedding day. He and Aregnaz were full of shyness and wonder the day they were blessed and crowned king and queen. Their arranged marriage had been a good one, one of harmony and respect. Love came later. He chuckled as he watched the dancing flames and remembered the day he and his family had gone to her house for the official visit. When the grandmother had opened the door, Aregnaz, who was standing near the hearth and not realizing that the family had already arrived, called out, “Nanee jan, garmurel em, gam (Granny dear, I have turned red [referring to her cheeks], shall I come)?” It was at that moment, upon hearing her innocent words, that he knew he would like her. After the wedding, unlike the other married men in the village, he never addressed his wife as gneeg (wife), but rather by her name, Aregnaz. The name suited her well—graceful sun. He delighted in helping her. At night, when the lights in the other houses were out, he would carry the round metal tub filled with clothes outside. Under the light of the moon and stars he’d hang them on a line at the side of the house. He dared not do this in daylight for fear that he would be perceived by others as weak and less of a man. Definitely, if the men folk knew they would mock him and tell him that he was not a real dghamart (man)!

Vahram walked over to the bed. His wife’s worn slippers were still there near the wall. He reached for them, and then with one hand pressed them to his heart as he sat down on the bed. With his other hand he stroked her pillow. He shook his head, “Der Asdvats (Lord God), I was never even able to buy her a pretty pair! Although I never told her, I always wanted to buy her something special—one day when I had the means. But that day never came. ‘…Meg barstee vrah tseranag (…May you grow old together on one pillow)!’ was the wedding wish for us, but that did not happen either.” Still clinging to her slippers and stroking the pillow, he whispered, “Akh, Aregnaz, I was unable to give you anything. If only...”

Vahram hastily put on his coat and walked out the door carrying Aregnaz’s slippers in his hands. The snowdrifts were deeper now, and it took him a long time to walk back to the cemetery. At last he was at the foot of his wife’s grave. He kneeled before her resting place and bowed his head as he gently placed her slippers before him on the snow. He closed his eyes and wept. When he opened them, to his amazement he noticed that Aregnaz’s slippers were shimmering.

He looked up at the glimmering stars and glowing moon. Was it the tears that had fallen on them and caused the slippers to shimmer in the night light or was it something else? He did not know.

Suddenly, in the distance, he heard his son calling, “Baba, Baba!” Vahram looked up and saw Narek rushing towards him.

“Baba, come home! Come see! Mama has left something for you!”

“Narek jan, my child, Mama is gone, go home. You will catch cold out here!”

“No, Baba, you must come home, Mama has left something for you!”

Puzzled by the boy’s unusual insistent behavior and wondering what he was talking about, Vahram slowly rose to his feet thinking, Poor motherless child, the grief is too much for him! He glanced down at Aregnaz’s grave and her slippers before taking hold of his son’s hand.

Together they trudged through the snow. Narek’s hand felt warm in his, and for a moment he was comforted. “Baba, when I grow up I want to be just like you!” The boy’s words took his breath away, and he squeezed his hand. As they approached their home, Narek let go of his father’s hand and ran to open the door. “Come, Baba, see what Mama has left for you!”

Narek excitedly pointed to the object on the table. “Where did you find this, my son?” he asked as he reached for the half-carved wooden box.

“Over there, Baba, where Mama kept her slippers. Come, let me show you!”

Vahram followed his son to the corner of the room. He watched as the boy lifted a small section of the floor. “This is where I found it,” said Narek. “I had dropped my book and when I reached for it I noticed that the floor was loose.”

Vahram looked at the opening in the floor and then walked back to the table and sat down on the chair. He stared at the box and remembered the day he began carving it, but never had the chance to finish it. The box was going to be for Aregnaz. He brought it closer to him and opened the lid. Wrapped in Aregnaz’s handkerchief was a delicate chord, and the intricately carved wooden cross he had made for her birthday last year.

Tears streamed down Vahram’s face, and for the longest time he could not stop weeping. When he finally stopped, he looked at the cross again. He touched it. He stroked it. Then, he smiled as he picked up the chord Aregnaz had made. It was the finest he had ever seen. As he reverently placed the cross and cord and handkerchief on the table, he noticed that a note lined the bottom of the box. The edges of the note were adorned with drawings of tiny roses. As he read the note tears streamed down Vahram’s face again. He threaded the cord through the tiny opening at the top of the cross, tied it around his neck, and read the note once more.

“You Have Given Me Everything, My Beloved.”