Like Water on Stone (12 page)

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Authors: Dana Walrath

BOOK: Like Water on Stone
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DAY 31
ULUBABA MOUNTAIN
Sosi
First I ate the skin
by my fingernails.
Then I chewed
on a nail all night
while we walked.
Now my nails won’t grow.
I chew a twig
and touch the quill
back inside a seam,
my seam,
where it’s safe
as we walk.
I pull it out
when we stop
before full dawn
and Shahen goes
to search for food.
I touch Mariam’s neck and face
with the quill’s feathery tip
so she sleeps.
I touch my own
neck and face once
to remember
the shimmering
feeling of Vahan
before I put the quill back,
hidden from Shahen,
who cannot know I have it.
If he threw it away again
I might never find it.
DAY 33
BUZ MOUNTAIN
Shahen
Sosi
The pot is heavy
and you are weak.
Let’s leave it.
Leave something
that we have
from home?
Never.
You need
your strength,
Sosi
jan
,
for the journey.
The pot is heavy
and I need
my strength
to carry
Mariam.
Never, Shahen!
Never.
You wanted
to leave.
Not me.
This pot
is every meal
we ever ate.
This pot
is black
with the smoke
from our hearth.
This pot is Mama
and
madzoon
and
dolma
.
It gives me strength.
From that,
you may
find yours.
DAY 35
BUZ MOUNTAIN
Shahen
Without olive oil, fire, and Mama’s touch,
wild onions and garlic pulled from the earth
leave a sour tang in my throat.
Our stomachs cough up
yellow clumps
after we eat.
Mountain grass and flowers
are sweeter but cannot fill us.
The seams are empty like our stomachs.
Water from cold springs hits our insides.
Filling bellies with worms and bugs
empties our other parts.
I fill us with a story.
The first mother gave birth to the earth.
Like all good mothers,
she fed it with milk so it could grow.
In the sky you see her milk
flowing in a circle
around the earth.
When God saw how the earth had grown
so beautiful,
he filled it with his children.
He made Eve from Adam’s rib.
Eve fed her children with milk
like the first mother
who gave birth to the earth.
Look at the sky.
You can always feel full
from drinking in
Dzir Gatin
,
the Milky Way.
DAY 36
Mariam
Ma:
Swan down, wave,
curve, curve, half curve.
Swan down, wave,
curve, curve, half curve.
Ma
Ma
Mama
Ma
Ma
Mama
Cold
Hungry
Mama
DAY 37
BORIK MOUNTAIN
Shahen
Mountain snows
melt with summer sunshine.
Streams rush.
Flowers bloom.
But this high up
it’s still too early
for ripe fruits.
This wide stream glistens
from early moonbeams.
A voice inside it says
find water,
follow it to people.
We find a place
in the woods
for the girls to wait
one night,
one full day,
one half night.
I follow the stream.
I promise to return with food.
I tell them,
“Leave
if I’m not back
by tomorrow night.
Leave
when the moon is high.”
Sosi’s brows knit
like thick black wool.
Like a burr from a field,
Mariam grabs my skirt.
She won’t let go.
I pull apart her fingers.
“I will come back.
But if soldiers find me
you must leave
before they find you too.”
The mounds by the river
rise here by this stream.
Sosi sees them too,
I know.
I tell her,
“Go south.
Use the stars.
Stay high
till you see the desert
from the ridge.”
Sosi’s sharp bones
cut into me as we hug. She says,
“You’ll find us in Aleppo
with Mama and Papa,
Kevorg,
Misak,
and Anahid.
Together we’ll go home.”
I nod.
She lets me go.
Sosi
The red cloud of wool
so soft and so fine
is ready to spin.
I pull a tiny pinch
between the tip of my thumb
and finger.
I rub it back and forth
between finger bones,
pulling as I rub.
Pull it out bit by bit,
rub it back and forth.
The red cloud becomes
a long red thread.
I can make it back
into a bird
again.
I must.
Mariam
Shahen.
Wave,
curve to the side.
Shahen.
DAY 38
Shahen
I follow the stream for hours
to some houses on its bank,
houses pink with dawn,
filled with other people and their food.
I retie my head scarf.
I watch from behind the trees
while women and girls
help men and boys
get ready to leave with the sheep.
I choose the one who smiled
as she gave her boy food.
I ask her,
not right away,
while the morning chatter continues,
Kurdish and Turkish mixed together,
but after,
when the women
go back to their houses.
I smooth my skirt.
I open her door,
Mama’s coin in my open palm.
“Please, mother.
Do you have food for me and my sisters?
Our village was burned.
Our parents killed.
Please, mother?”
She closes my hand around the coin and answers,
“Come.”
She pulls me inside
onto the warm soft carpet.
Colors rise through the soles of my feet.
Cinnamon surrounds me.
My mouth fills with wet.
She cuts a slab of cheese,
bread and olives,
hot tea
for me.
“Eat slowly, so it
stays down,” she tells me.
Warmth flows
from my throat
to my toes
to my crown
to the tips of my fingers
with each swallow.
My belly’s full so fast.
The bread and cheese
sit before me.
Inside a cloth she wraps
basturma
bastegh
cheese
halva
nuts
foods
rich
dense and dry.
They will take us
over mountains.
She asks no questions.
She wraps and ties the cloth
tight and secure like a swaddled child.
She folds the cheese inside the bread.
I put it in my pocket. Our eyes meet.
She sees through my dress and scarf to me.
She places one hand on the side of my head.
A kerchief cannot hide a mother’s touch. She says,
“Your clothes, they are good. Stay like this.
Don’t let them know. Hide till nightfall.
Soldiers were here a few days ago.”
My clothes.
My face burns.
If soldiers catch us,
what good could
these clothes do?
Soldiers would strip me
like all the girls at the river.
Girl after girl, naked.
I saw them.
Young boys died clothed.
I’d be stripped
and they’d know,
and then what?
Ardziv
I circled the village
all day while he hid,
rising high enough
to see Sosi and Mariam too.
Sosi pulled wool
into thread
as Mariam slept.
Lines of soldiers
marched in the distance.
Small groups combed
the woods
for strays
like Shahen,
Sosi, and
Mariam.
Sosi
Mariam
Mariam wakes
in the dark.
She wants to run.
She expects it.
“
Yalla
,
come on.
We must
find Shahen.”
I cover her mouth.
She quiets.
We go back
to the stream.
We drink.
We eat grass.
We wait.
We place stones
in a heap.
He’s got to know
how to find us.
We listen
for Shahen’s
footsteps.
Without running,
night is huge.
Wind
water
branches
breathing.
“I want Shahen.”
“Let’s go back
to the wood.
Shahen went
to get food.”
We wait till the moon
is high.
“Come closer.
I will draw
a story
on your back.
We are at home,
with Mama
making
lahmajoon
.”
“Lahmajoon.”
“Shahen’s happy.
Lahmajoon
is
his favorite.
“Around the big
rolling stone
Mama breaks
off small pieces
of dough.
She gives one
to you, and a stick
Papa made smooth
for rolling.
You poke holes
in the dough.
Mama pushes
down hard.
She rolls the pin
front to back.
Rotate the dough
front to back,
rotate the dough.”
“Mama.”
“Circles of dough
go onto the tray.
I spread
meat
onions
peppers
tomatoes
and mint
on top.”
“Mama.
Swan down.”
“Yes. Mama.
She puts the tray
into the oven.
Meat and mint
perfume the air.
We make more
and more
and more.
She rolls the pin
front to back.
Rotate the dough
front to back,
rotate the dough.
Out of the oven
we stack them
into a tower.
We are ready
for everyone
when the mill work
is done.”
“Where’s Shahen?”
I listen
for my brother’s
footsteps.
The moon rises.
Night grows.
“I want Shahen.”
No footsteps.
My head aches.
My gut pulls
to nowhere.
I search the stars
for south.
I search the treetops
for the right branch,
ready to leave
without him
when the moon
touches it.
“Shahen,
goozem
.”
The moon moves.
Shahen does not.
He’ll never get here.
The moon
wins the race.
Soldiers may have
found him.
He won’t be
in Aleppo.
I place two sticks
on the ground.
With a bit of red thread
I tie them into a cross.
I pull Mariam
to her feet.
I grab the pot.
“Time to run,
little one.”
Shahen
It is dark.
Please, Sosi,
wait for me.
I can’t go yet.
People wander outside
between and around the houses,
like we did at home
in summer
on the roof
at night,
singing,
dancing.
Cold air hits me,
makes me shiver.
I make it summer in my mind.
Summer on the roof,
apricot summer,
dancing the
tamzara
.
One
—
two
—
three,
stomp, stomp.
Full of life
for hours,
waiting,
Sosi and Mariam waiting.
Wait for me.
Please.
This village still stirs.
Those men
might be soldiers.
I cannot go.
I let my mind
join the line.
dancing the
tamzara
with my brothers,
Mama, Anahid,
and Sosi.
Boy, girl, six in a line,
hands on each other’s shoulders,
the sound of the
zurna
piercing the air.
One
—
two
—
three,
stomp, stomp.
Kevorg,
Mama,
Misak,
Anahid,
then me
and Sosi.
Our hands slip to clasping.
The moon is too high.
Those men must be soldiers.
Why don’t they sleep?
One
—
two
—
three,
stomp, stomp,
the bad things
leave us
as we stomp
on the roof.
One
—
two
—
three,
stomp, stomp.
One
—
two
—
three,
stomp, stomp.
Papa comes to the line.
He pulls me from it.
He says I’m a girl.
I push to join them,
Kevorg and Misak,
stomp, stomp,
content with the mill,
stomp, stomp.
I pull Papa’s arm,
stomp, stomp,
from my shoulder.
One
—
two
—
three,
stomp, stomp.
Kevorg and Misak,
stomp, stomp.
One
—
two
—
three,
stomp, stomp.
Content with the mill,
stomp, stomp.
One
—
two
—
three,
stomp, stomp.
White faces
like clowns,
stomp, stomp.
The soldiers leave,
stomp, stomp.
I step out
like lightning.
The moon is too high.
My feet know the way.
I run alone.
Faster
without them,
white faces
like clowns,
to a steady pulsing beat,
to my sisters
in the woods
by the stream.

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