The southbound bus rolled into the Fresno Greyhound Depot at daybreak. Armen stretched as he stood up, picked up his paperback and notebook, and stepped up the bus aisle with his hands stepping from seat to seat. After claiming his pack, he picked up a Sunday Bee, sat down against the depot wall, and scanned the front page. He looked out across Broadway, and dug out the classifieds. After locating the jobs section, he slid a pen out of his notebook binding and circled several ads. He paused, and crossed out several of the circles. He looked out across the quiet street, got up, and heaved on his backpack.

He walked up to Fulton Mall with the fat Bee in his right hand and his notebook and paperback in his left, and he followed Fulton to Armeniantown, where his old church had stood before it burned down. He half-expected the old Armenian Presbyterian church to be there still. The orthodox church was still standing, not far away, laid out like a prostrate crucifix, in the old world style. He ambled toward it, dropped his pack, and sat on the steps to read the news.

After some time, the church doors opened, and people began to appear for services. Armen lifted up his pack, and ascended the steps. He apologized in Armenian to one of the greeters at the entry for his appearance, and asked for permission to attend services with his backpack, explaining that he’d just returned from college. The old man seemed to recognize him, or something about him, smiled, and welcomed him.

Though Armen’s family was Protestant, he respectfully wove his best sign of the cross as he entered the sanctuary. He seated himself in the second row from the back, and read the Armenian and English text that arched above the altar: “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another.” He settled back into the pew for the service and liturgy, absorbing the warm incense and Armenian chant. The great saints overhead basked in the mingling firelight of the candles inside and the sun outside. The church interior glowed as though it were a great brick candelabrum ablaze. He felt the ancestral Armenian love of fire arise in his veins, and leaned back like a sun worshiper on a hot park bench. He nearly spread his arms along the back of the pew, but then thought better of it.

After the liturgy, he picked up his pack and hiked up Ventura Avenue and First Street, and navigated the massive grid to his grandparents’ home in the prematurely aging heart of the city.

© 2008 Dan J. Jensen