SEVAK ARAMAZD, MOUNTAIN OF THE SUN

By the author

After long years of wandering, I finally return to the house where my childhood lived. I could not shake off the feeling that my life would soon end and I would fail to see that childhood again. The door was closed. I knocked three times but received no reply. I looked in through the window but could only see my unclear reflection. I was just about to knock again when suddenly the door was opened as if by an invisible hand. With a pounding heart I entered, expecting that my childhood would run towards me any moment from out of the semi-darkness and I would embrace it with boundless longing and clasp it to my breast. But the house was empty. No one was there. Since my departure, no human hand had touched the objects in the house. Everything was in its place. But it was not there. Downcast, I returned with lowered head to the yard and wanted to leave forever when I sensed some kind of presence behind me. I turned around: at the garden fence, in the unreal, glaring light of the autumn sun, sat a little old man looking straight head motionlessly. I was gripped by fear: it seemed to me to be my deceased father, who was waiting for my return home, but as I approached I realised that the man was a total stranger to me. I had never met him in my life. I studied the old man’s face and was astonished by his light-less gaze, staring out without wavering. The old man did not return my greeting and answered none of my questions, as if he were blind and deaf. I was overcome by a strange weakness and felt that I was unable to leave this house. As if under a spell, I sat down silently beside the old man and this story took its course.

©Sevak Aramazd