There are some Armenians who … are called children of the Sun. They … teach their children according to the traditions their ancestors learned from the mage Zradasht, the chief of the fire-temple. They worship the Sun, turning their faces to it, they revere the poplar tree, and of the flowers they worship the lily, the sunflower and others whose faces are always turned toward the Sun.”
—Mxitar of Aparan, 14th Century
Armen rode his bike between the banks and the water’s edge up the giant gutter for several miles, and then he left the channel near a bridge. When he emerged at the shoulder of a broad avenue near the bridge, he looked for a street sign. A green panel said “Glendale Blvd.” That name reminded him of Papeek and Tateek, his maternal grandparents. They lived somewhere in Glendale. He’d been to their home some number of times, but didn’t know where it was. He decided to ride up the boulevard a ways, to see if he might recognize anything. He did.
Armen followed the familiar around several turns, sometimes losing the scent, backtracking and regaining it. Night fell, but the alluring scent of the familiar kept him on the trail, and he finally found himself across the street from his grandparents’ home, inhaling the scent of hearth smoke and wondering what to do next.
He watched the faint distortion of smoke rising from the chimney. He watched the yellow light pour through the windows. He walked his bike across the street, and leaned it against their street tree. He released his bicycle’s seat and approached the house shyly. When he came to the door, he tapped thrice on the paneling and stepped back. The porch light suddenly flooded down upon him as if to interrogate him, and he braced himself doubly. The door swung open without the slightest squeak, and Tateek appeared. She didn’t recognize him immediately, not having expected him, and Armen having let his hair go of late, but his eyes soon jogged her memory, and she suddenly gushed out, “Armen! Armen! What are you doing here? Come in!” She hugged him as he entered, and Papeek appeared behind her. “Armen! We were just having dinner. Come sit down.”
Tateek retreated and pulled out a chair for her grandson while Papeek took his seat, and then Tateek hurried off to fetch some dinner for the disheveled young man. A solitary candle was burning in the middle of the table. Armen felt his grandfather’s eyes upon his hands, and Armen looked down at them and noticed the streaks of chain grease. He let out a nervous laugh and declared, “I really should wash up.” His grandfather’s eyes glowed momentarily as his cheeks, tongue, and jaw performed their after-meal cleanup.
When Armen finished washing, his hands were still stained with grease. He looked at his grandmother’s towels and chose to wipe his hands on his pants instead. When he returned to the dining table, a salad, hummus, and flatbread were waiting. His grandfather still sat at the head of the table, a deck of playing cards having taken the place of his dinner plate. Tateek was in the kitchen, presumably preparing Armen’s main course. Armen took his seat across from Mount Ararat and took straight to eating. He would ordinarily have avoided the tomatoes in the salad, but he was hungry and he didn’t wish to disappoint his grandparents so quickly after so long.