When I’m feeling down, I usually want to be alone with God. I wanna go ride. I wanna feel the speed and the freedom that God made it possible for my body to feel when I’m traveling 70 mph with very little between me and the world. I feel so isolated in a car, insulated in a muffled, stifling kind of way. I want to get where I want to go on my own accord, or at least with as little help as possible.
However, sometimes, when I grab my helmet and stomp toward the front door, I hear a soft, baritone voice call, “E.J...?”
My dad is five foot seven which is an inch shorter than my mom. His skin is olive. His hair is brown and feathery and down to his shoulders. He’s slender and has brown eyes that are always smiling even when he’s serious. I’ve always kinda thought he looks like he could have walked with Christ, you know? I mean, he really lives as a Christian. He’s the first to forgive and understand. His heart is always about others.
Poulon (said Paul-Lon) never asks me what’s wrong. He just takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen and puts on the kettle. I’ll lean against the counter, all leather jacket and attitude, not ready to calm down or let go yet. He’ll just talk to me while he makes us coffee. Mostly, he tells me stories from when he was a boy. Often there’s something funny about my mother because they’ve always known each other.
My father believe he is the luckiest person on Earth. He feels blessed by the Divine. “Your mother was the most beautiful girl of all the girls. She was just like you – sharp and smart and confident. But she only had eyes for one person and that certainly wasn’t me.” He laughs. “I was a good runner and a kind boy but I was skinny and hairless and so terrified of your mother that I couldn’t look her in the eyes.”
I usually laugh about now. I know that my father’s mother use to brush his long hair and braid it with strips of leather. I know that once a neighbor said he looked like a young Jesus and was certainly as gentle. I know that my mother was a girl to pick fights and arguments and my father was a peace maker.
When my mother’s family decided to come to America she asked the love of her life to come with her. That person was not my father. But Solin said no. She didn’t want to leave her family’s farm. She didn’t want to come to America. She had lost a leg in an accident when she was a pre-teen and she felt that my mother could “do better.” That two young women trying to make a life and a family for themselves – even in America – would be impossible and full of sorrow. My mother was devastated. Solin said, with honesty, kindness and sincerity, “Poulon is a good man. He’ll be a good father to your children.”
My mother always laughs that she responded with, “Poulon who?” But I know (from Solin) that my mother said nothing. Solin tells that at that moment, she saw pain in my mother’s eyes for the first time. Solin turned away from her because she couldn’t handle that look and because she knew she’s give in and go.
Solin continues to be an important part of my family. Almost like another mom. In a lot of ways, she’s like a female version of my dad – faithful, gentle, calm, impossible to anger. She and my dad have long conversations in Armenian that are full of laughter.
Dad says, “When your world seems the darkest, that is when the Divine places an angel in your life. Selfless, kind. I am blessed among men, E.J., because God has blessed me with a fleet of angels, all when I needed them most.”
Then he hugs me and he pours my coffee. And he tells me a story where the main character is a goat or a pre-teen version of my mother, fifty years younger then now but just as steely and brilliant.
One act of kindness and selflessness created a chain of events that led to an incredible marriage, a deep and beautiful friendship between three people, and an atmosphere of fascinating history, respect, and faith that brought me up to be everything I am today. You may indeed be blessed, Daddy, but so am I. Thank you.
E.J.
