Remembering Jigar

I wrote this the night my beloved maternal grandmother passed away in Los Angeles. It happened to be Memorial Day. Jigar is what my sister and I called her, it's Armenian for "liver," which might sound strange but it is a term of endearment since liver is a delicacy. In her life she lived through, witnessed, and was directly affected by two world wars, the French and then American involvement in Vietnam, radical Islam in the Middle East, and the Civil Rights struggle in America. Thus, to me it seemed rather ironic that after nine and a half decades of human misfortune she gave up her tiny body on Memorial Day. My mother and I were not present when her heart finally stopped, but we were there shortly after to give our prayers and blessings, my mother in her Christian way and me in my own way. It will always be one of the most profound experiences of my life. I will always remember Memorial Day for my own reasons.

May 29, 2006

This is a day of memories
Strewn red with blood
Under blue skies
Pasted over white skin,
Life fleeing from life.

This is a day of death-
Remembrance of those forgotten by god,
Those children who grew up too fast,
Sacrifices upon the altars of democracy,
The altars of communism,
Religions, nations, natural resources;
But you, dear Jigar,
You are my natural resource
And now I remember your depletion,
The completion of your life,
The cease-fire of your strife-
You have called your truce with pain
Your suffering is not in vain
So long as my veins carry your rivers
Until I too will merge with the sea.

The moon is a crescented bull horn,
A celestial megaphone beckoning your soul.
The sun will rise without you
And without your voice.

I will carry your memorial day
Until the end of my days.

The land is full of death.
Your ultimate breath fills the air
Pushing the circumference of a hospital room
With the warmth of your ethereal fire;
I see your tired body,
Spent,
No longer subject to sinking
Just floating
Waiting for the ashes to be brought forth.
For the last few years I have known
Only your eyes
And the primacy of your throat,
Long gone has been your voice calling me
-“Bala”-
Did you acknowledge in your silent way
When I finally cut my hair?
Did you realize your legacy to the world
In the flowers I presented to you,
Your great-grandchildren?
Yes, they are great and grand children
And they will know your name
For all it’s worth.

I wonder
Who came to meet you
At the crossroads?
Did you recognize their light?
Beyond ceiling tiles bleached white
And the mechanical lifelines,
Did you recognize your fatigue?

Only death clouds my eyes
Amidst the concrete and steel of this city-
The piles of trash and airless air-
I see flowers rich with meaning,
I see tropical abundance and life
In these plant teachers of the urban wilderness,
But only death clouds my eyes
The way life was a cloud in yours.
I see your mouth agape
Perched upon your head like a mysterious cave,
I see your body’s husk
A seashell adorned with the bells of death.

Still your hand
Grip tight no longer
Release the decades of your misfortune
Into my amethyst rocks
Rolling in amber tides.
I will watch for you this night
I will speak a spell
To illustrate the door of your departure
I will anoint your noble brow
With the oil of frankincense
And bless you where the world neglected you.
I crown you queen of the dead
And I declare this day for your passing,
You need not be a stranger amongst the dead,
Our ancestors have awaited you
And now a thousand eyes of a thousand years
Converge upon your crown
Flocking like hummingbirds to your Kali flower
Drawing forth your life into fourth dimension fruit.