medzmama* interrupted

wondering how I got there
wondering how I found her
she was almost an illusion
drifting between the dusty letters
whispering a secret recipe for subeoregs

tpov dolma is my favorite
(i used to call it sarma in another life, sad isn’t it?)
i couldn’t resist the smell
medzmama lost her vagina in the desert that took her from Anatolia to Lebanon
she is all about caring hands and wrinkled smiles
the rest (or what remained of her) is hidden under a beige French combinaison


i always thought that she was a man
but when she offered me braided choeregs for Easter I became suspicious

her black and white photo is still on my desk
she looks like an actress from an old Egyptian musical movie

i dedicated her my unique kitchen spices as a token of eternal gratitude
i still want to believe that she is a happy person.
sa tristesse est un bonheur qui coule doucement dans mes entrailles.

*grandma in Armenian, my Armenian