2015 - Ongoing
Being the grand-daughter of a political refugee,
memory took the form of a marble pillar in our family.
Our Armenian grandmother and her siblings
ran away from the genocide in 1915.
Years later, pictures were rare and stories did not always match up
As if they were loosing faces and names at every step
like a small rock through a hole in their pockets
while walking across countries and generations.
We started to cherish simple objects until they would become relics,
would adore pictures now turned into icons.
Without being religious we had build an altar,
we had faith in something above us.
Both a burden and a pride was our voracious memory.
It is like the ancient murals we sometimes find in churches
Time damaged the surface, crackled the paint, the varnish faded away,
but the core of it proudly remains.
May it last forever.
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