a work in progress

I started writing the story of my great Aunt Mary many months ago; then after Grammy passed I stopped writing, stopped taking picture because I was working on a photo book about her. I decided a few days ago to write about those two women and myself. so my update is part of the story; just a very rough beggining :~)

This all began with a woman who fled from the elk, like so many others. She landed in Up State New York with a husband and three beautiful daughters. Her family fallowed from the homeland and settled down nearby. Displaced because horns rammed through the hearts of these innocent people, the Vosganyan family found a new home; a different way of living. In tongue this mother spoke to her daughters, a language so distant from what the average New Yorker. As children, Mary, Margaret and Louise heard pieces of their family's history strewn together in a mess of anger, pain and shame. There was some far off land, where everyone had their eyes, giant bulge of a nose and hair as dark as the black sea, but they knew very little about it. The existence of their ancestors were said to have been from France, or Canada or possibly Armenia, but who knew right? If you were to stare at the face of Margaret, or gaze into Mary’s eyes, pieces of a puzzle become clear. And once those three sisters aged, the puzzle was complete with their wrinkled hands that spoke not only of their strife, but of the history they were forced to keep hidden for years and years, until the next generation started to question.
There are many unanswered questions in one’s life; but sometimes the question is the answer. To search for the question is as important as finding the answer. I came to Armenia with the knowledge that it was a quarter of my heritage. I so badly wanted to know this small part of me, maybe to feel complete or just to have a greater understanding of the brave women who raised me. I owe a great deal of my love to Margaret and Mary. Louise was as beautiful, but I knew her less. With Mary remaining, our closeness grows; not only because we share is the burden of watching those around us struggle, with little power to change what is happening. But, even more so to the fact that I am searching for the history of our family; with her being the last tie to our Armenian roots. My family is weaved into a blanket, our stories and history as the Vosganyan women! the strength to battle cancer, live through abuse, survive divorce, overcome learning struggles, handle depression and anxiety, with more under our roof, we're strong, brave, sometimes so weak we keep the truth hidden, or so strong we want to tell anyone we think can change a negative situation when we hold little power in our hands. We are one!
There are fourteen women I speak of, three generations with a golden thread, connecting and illuminating the paths we fallow. Now with my questions still unknown and my answers even farther from becoming clear, I wander the streets of Yerevan staring into those kind, soulful eyes that resemble the two angels’ of my light. The great woman who led my heart from the future to the past has now become part of my past. I always knew that Grammy, also known as Margaret would not have accepted my decision to travel back to the homeland, having her gone I felt would have eased my thoughts. Now, she is more than ever alive, soaring around me, standing right behind me, her wrinkled aged hands, holding onto my back. I feel the air around me pick up my feet, with wings I am almost flying with her. The final physically present day spent with her, is captured in my photographic collection. Whirling around in my head, a movie, almost unreal, it still feels like a dream.
The slow down spiral, whirled up as Margaret rose from her slumber. Eager to eat, with her brittle bones she moseyed to the kitchen. That day a light was cast on the back porch where everyone ate their breakfast, as if to give my Grammy one more chance. There were two positive weeks before the shivers, night sweats that drenched through her white and blue rosy sheets reoccurred. Within twenty four hours she drifted off for her final slumber.
When word spread that she was back in the lifeless hospital bed that carried many others of to sleep, without question picked up my cousin Christine at Boston University and jumped on the mass pike. This nauseous ache rushed through my veins, unable to make any kind of a decision, I knew I wanted to say goodbye. Almost all her 8 children and 8 grandchildren knelt by her bed. We gently kissed her wrinkled forehead, whispering our "i love you's" with one last grip of her hand. For me and my cousin Christine, she awoke with recognition, her heart smiled wide and she chuckled. The fact she knew we were there was a gift for me. I was given that chance to say goodbye. It has been three months since her passing. I kept hoping that I would feel her pressence, as I have with so many other’s whom has entered the spiritual world, but it had yet to occur. Empty, confused, I needed reassurance that the path I fallowed would heal my torn up, cracked, wrinkled feet. I knew her guidance would end each of my footsteps on soft, silky grass.
Today on September 27, 2010 I was sitting in Republic square, in Yerevan Armenia, I could feel Grammy's hand grace my shoulder, closing my eyes, her figure was behind me. I was a little girl sitting at the giant wooden table, covered with the blue and white cotton blanket. Grammy was in the kitchen, her hands flew around like birds. I could smell the chocolate and sweet surgery sensation of the golden brownies rising in the oven. The world made sense in the days of sugary goodness, outstretched arms that could hug anyone, the wrinkled sheets I danced up and down on, until nick at night when I huddled on the floor by my grandfather's T.V. Rushed back in time; I saw the past unfold as if it were the future. I was not scared because I had already been whiteness. Her vision eased my doubt; I saw her wisdom written in the clouds. I realized that when she passed I had been sick and could not shed those needed tears; and when I stare at those dancing clouds, the simple word “cry” is always written. She is forcing me to feel my way through this journey by starting with the tear drops. As they stream my face, her vision appears my eyes close and she dries my sunken eyes. My pale skin is hidden in those ancient hands. There has always been an unspoken bond between me, my grandmother and great ant Mary. I could feel that bond reborn as I sat with my feet dipped in the fountain. My chilled toes were all of a sudden baked by the sun. Only my grandmother could reveal my sadness and heal my cold, tired heart. I ached for her loving arms to hug me once more and wrap me in her reassurance. At that moment I knew everything would be ok. In spirit she is amongst me on my journey, we travel together. When I return home my journey will only continue and Mary will tread the road with me until her voice tires and the whisper of history is a faded image of ancestors unknown by name.
Mary is a firecracker. She has aged with the suffering of burying almost her entire family; yet each day she rises with the sun and dances with the moon. Until age 90 she worked at her family store. Taking care of those around her was the need she filled; knowing that her remaining son was incapable. The strength she embodies, is a gift few have; and a lesson she teaches everyday to those who listen and actually see. Quite easy is it, to take for granted our elders and the wisdom they have to share.