Under the arch
I studied in Paris and enjoyed the classes in college, he did travel by train on weekends and my youthful effervescence. My father, a man very close to the family, had asked me to look for relatives who may live in Paris but did not. I wanted to feel free, break family ties and let go of my American roots.
Spent the summer and the days were growing longer, cold and dark. Even in the City of Light was beginning to miss my family. It was my first stay away from home and I felt alone and disconnected, she missed the joys and emotions of Christmas with mine. I thought maybe he was turning the pages of my life too quickly.
Then, in a particularly cold day, gray, 1996, I found myself walking toward the Armenian church, a sober stone building in the opulent boulevard Jean Goujon.
I sat in a bank, under one of the beautiful stone arches. While the priest celebrated Mass, I noticed an older woman bent down the hall from top to bottom looking for a seat. Armenian church services as often long, would not give him mine, but I was 20 and she about 70. So he passed me, I offered my seat talking in Armenian. He agreed, saying nothing, and I stood to one side, under the arch.
Then, in a particularly cold day, gray, 1996, I found myself walking toward the Armenian church, a sober stone building in the opulent boulevard Jean Goujon.
I sat in a bank, under one of the beautiful stone arches. While the priest celebrated Mass, I noticed an older woman bent down the hall from top to bottom looking for a seat. Armenian church services as often long, would not give him mine, but I was 20 and she about 70. So he passed me, I offered my seat talking in Armenian. He agreed, saying nothing, and I stood to one side, under the arch.
I noticed that she looked at me occasionally, and I looked at her. There was tenderness in her dark eyes and expressive. I noticed that he crossed himself, sang and crossed herself again. I envied the comfort and confidence that seemed to have to sing and raise my hands to God.
As he neared the end of the service, quietly said:
- You're not from here, right?
- How do you know?
- Because I spoke in Armenian. Young people speak French here. Where are you?
- From Florida, USA.
- I have relatives there. They are three brothers. Sarkis, Dikran y. ..
- Ara - I said and I felt a lump in my throat -. Ara is my dad.
His weathered face filled with tears. He raised his hands again and said hoarsely:
As he neared the end of the service, quietly said:
- You're not from here, right?
- How do you know?
- Because I spoke in Armenian. Young people speak French here. Where are you?
- From Florida, USA.
- I have relatives there. They are three brothers. Sarkis, Dikran y. ..
- Ara - I said and I felt a lump in my throat -. Ara is my dad.
His weathered face filled with tears. He raised his hands again and said hoarsely:
"It's a miracle from God. 30 years I've been looking for your father. I knew you were someone special. I know enough to see your face.
It was my aunt, a member of the widely scattered family of my paternal grandfather, who joined the Armenian diaspora through Iraq, Syria and the United States. She lived in Syria and was in Paris just to visit, but a quirk of fate put us under the arch at the same time.
I thought I was in France to discover who he was and to gather stories for the future. We may not know what I was looking for, but did not need to know because an angel of the past, Arev Kasparian, found me and brought to our family.
Author:Natalie Garibian Peters
It was my aunt, a member of the widely scattered family of my paternal grandfather, who joined the Armenian diaspora through Iraq, Syria and the United States. She lived in Syria and was in Paris just to visit, but a quirk of fate put us under the arch at the same time.
I thought I was in France to discover who he was and to gather stories for the future. We may not know what I was looking for, but did not need to know because an angel of the past, Arev Kasparian, found me and brought to our family.
Author:Natalie Garibian Peters
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