In the icy stillness of Lake Van
Aghtamar’s silhouette pierces the cloudless sky
Our boat moves toward history, hope, strength
I picture my grandmother Zartar —
nine years old, on a ship to Ellis Island,
the outline of the Statue of Liberty towering above her
a figure as strong as her mother
who had carried her across the desert
I knew I was safe, she said —
beyond the reach of the hands that tore our world apart
Our boat stops on Ktuts Island near Aghtamar
We hopscotch on slippery stones
to the land where bones lie scattered, decaying
the monastery crumbling to dust.
In North Burial Ground, Providence, Rhode Island
a khachkar rises above the rest of the “ians” —
my modest grandmother Yaghout’s one demand:
to honor those whose names were lost
who died on the march like rolling stones
To pay for the privilege of surviving

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