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The Literary Groong - 04/09/2011

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	By Anahid Abesta

	1, 2, 3,
	Tap, tap, tap
	I heard your steps,
	in the darkness, in the yard.
	I hid my little body
	under my duvet
	pretending to sleep in quiet.

	You walked inside
	and lit the light,
	then stood patiently
	Called me in tender drops.

	I rose my head above the bed.
	I looked at you
	standing there
	with your tiny body
	and braided hair
	with an apron around your waist
	like a servant
	serving her head?
	Or like a cardinal
	hovering over her nest?

	Holding a cup and a saucer
	full of hot milk
	offering me the night's last link
	nurturing me like an angel
	Transformed to mother or matron.

	Is this the milk that
	stood with us in the evening
	at the doorway
	waiting for girls
	with black long dresses sweeping
	their feet,
	scarves around their heads
	with silver anklets around
	their legs running shoeless,
	sounding, pounding to get ahead
	of each other, to get there first?

	1, 2, 3
	Chling, chling, chling
	through the darkness of the alley
	towards our house to sell us milk
	calling you, Umma,* Umma?

	Is this the milk you waited with
	in the kitchen by the oven,
	waited for it to boil and rise
	then put aside for quite some time
	then poured a cup to served me well?

	I drank the milk,
	then went to bed.

	Now I look for you but never can find.
	Now it is my turn to nurture your nights,
	to serve you milk
	in my cup and saucer
	in my silver rounded tray.

	I have three sets of
	China cups,

	Wedgewood, Dalton and Mikasa
	and three trays,
	wooden, silver and crystal
	sitting still in the silence
	waiting for me to serve you.

	I am tired of longing, hoping,
	watching, waiting.

	I am tired of longing, hoping,
	watching, waiting for a sign

	I take a set of two cups
	placed well in a living room
	one cup for you
	one cup for me
	one sugar for you
	one sugar for me
	and then I wait for the sign.
	I don't hear you come in the room

	1, 2, 3
	tap, tap, tap
	neither do those girls'

	1, 2, 3
	chling, chling, chling
	run to us
	in darkened alleys.

	It's late evening
	I go to bed
	under my duvet.

	Next day I'll come and visit so to say
	with roses, tulips and carnations

	What is the number of your lot?
	Oh! I forget details like that.
	I can't reach you even now
	Atlantic Ocean and Alborz Mountain
	interfere in between us.

	Until we meet again __
	In the sky,
	surrounded with angels, the moon and stars
	please accept __
	my memories left aflame, left alive

	Until we meet again
	in the sky,
	I'll look at your picture
	in my room  on the wall
	framed squarely
	in gold and glass
	my grandmother, angel and protector,
	my Medz Myrig, my Umma, my life.

* Medz Myrig    =  In Armenian means grandmother
* Umma	=  In Arabic means her mother

Anahid Abesta likes to connect with her audience by writing about
daily life experiences and people's feelings.  She share her writings
with friends and family members. She studied college English writing
in Seneca College and later at TV Ontario Creative Writing course,
where she started writing plays, poems and speeches, and has written a
speech for a member of the Ontario provincial parliament on occasion
of the celebration of 2007th anniversary of Christianity of Armenians
in Toronto.  Anahid's short non-fiction story called "A Day at Work"
was published by Reader's Digest online.

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