By Tamar Marie Boyadjian

And a time will come that the rain will forget its intention. And losing its memory, a new rain will pour down. And this rain will mourn the past rains—each drop a grandmother. Each drop a soul. One and a half million souls. And more. That poured a rain. That wrote a rain. And another and another. Each one, a drop—an extension of the source.

And a day came, that a woman decided that she will be written. And a day came that the woman decided she write—a writer. She chose Western Armenian. And a day came where they did not tell her no. Because she did not accept no. A woman. Yes. And a day came that was not that day, but years later. And then a new year came. And Nane decided that today she will not wear white, or even blue, not even pink. No, not today. Today, she will not wear a skirt. No, not today. Today, she will wear trousers. Today, she will wear a tie. Today, she will not collect her long hair into a bun. Today, she will wear her hair flowing down. Today, there are books in her bag. Today, there is a pen and notebook in her bag. Today, she will learn about those women who are unnamed. And today, she will give them a name. And today, she will read about them. These writers who do not exist in books. And she will remember those women who could not read. And how they sewed their stories. And she will remember those women who could not write. And how they knit their stories. And one day she will write about these women. Because they also wrote. And she will give them a name, one day. And on another day, she will write them. And she will write wondering, who is a writer? And she will write wondering why she writes. And she will write wondering why they ignored so many. And she will write, without writing it down. She will sing. And she will cry, words as tears. And her pen will flow. And she will doubt. But her pen will still flow.

In between her fingers, that pen she moves. She writes. A mother. A grandmother. A writer. An Armenian. A woman. That created a language. That wrote a language. That adopted a language. This day, on this page, you are remembered. You will not be forgotten. Not today. And Nane pulled out her pen and paper. And she started copying. She copied all their names. Unnamed. She copied and copied them. She copied so she wouldn’t forget. She copied so you wouldn’t forget. Dear reader, you don’t forget. The unnamed that we give a name. The angels and the goddesses who carry their names. That published their words in the trees and the stars. In the shadow of a writer, that was not a shadow but the essence. A woman and A woman. A mirror to the writer’s shadow. A mother to the motherless child. A grandmother to the orphan. And when they lamented, it was for a future memory. I write to your past memory. Me, a woman who was here one day. A history that came one day. A life that was lived in some time. An eternal love. A literature and a language that you kept for me, like a mother nurtures their child. You kept her at your bosom, singing a lullaby to a child not yet born—a song one day yet to be sung.

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There is no right and wrong. There are no emotions. There is only writing. They say that those who are diagnosed with PTSD can help themselves during triggered attacks by doing something detail-oriented. To focus their attention on meticulous acts. Details aren’t defects. But completions. The brain is divided into different parts, they teach us. And in those horrid moments of a PTSD attack, they advise you to shift the focus of your brain from the part that rules emotion to the one that rules logic. In these moments, a body that was already a bastard to you becomes even more bastardized. Pulverized. Petrified. To pieces. Like your brain, your body dissipates like fragments. A dark current extending itself, spreading its rays from your head down to your thighs. And your body must submit, until its pulp belongs to a stranger. Every ingredient of your body made foreign. A shrapnel that needs to be sewn back together again. A heart that needs to beat as something again. This is how the doctors explained it to me, one day. When I tried to explain it to them.

Mom always dropped me off at Nani’s house before the morning sunrise. First things first: Armenian coffee, a cigarette, Armenian string cheese melted in pita bread. Do you want tea today? Yes, Nani. My Nani ran her house like we were living in a 19th-century Victorian novel. And during her morning coffee—which she loved to take out on the balcony, if the weather permitted—that day’s lunch was decided. And then around 11, we would move inside because her “programs” started then. I would read my books when she watched these soap operas. She didn’t know English. I am sure her versions of these stories were way more interesting. I heard her tell them to her friend in a phone call in Armenian.

These lethargic moments passed quickly in the day. Lunch. And after lunch, it was time for lessons. Literature and language. Then French. Then knitting and sewing, which was the most peaceful moment of the day. We knit silently. Nani, a sweater. I could barely figure out a short sock. Mine always came out crooked. Move slowly, she would advise. Meticulously. Life moves fast enough for us. But then she would knit and I would write. There is no right or wrong, she would say. Just write. Details aren’t defects, but completions.

How many Armenian women have knitted, have written—silently. To escape their broken hearts. To forget their trauma. But at the same time, to be able to tell their stories. To shift the focus of their brain from the part that rules emotion to the one that rules logic. Because the details of emotion were called defects. Nani, did you knit with your grandmother too when you were a kid? I don’t remember. I don’t remember that much from my childhood. How? I will tell you another day my darling. I am not in the mood today. Now, show me what you have written there?

And today we are out of the white Armenian string cheese, and so we have to eat American yellow cheese in pita bread. And there was a small earthquake this morning, so the news is on and there will be no other programming. And today, Nani knits and I write. And years later I came to understand that she told her stories through knitting. That she attended to her past by sewing. And why she encouraged me to write. Because I could not knit or sew. And she knew that if one day it so happened that I had to find a way to shift the focus of my brain from the part that rules emotion to the one that rules logic, I would have a strategy. I could write a story.

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And a day will come. And a time will come. And the clock will stop. And time will have no meaning. That time will come. But this time, the river will flow. Nar will cry and the rain will fall. And you will turn to your palm. And you will read the lines. And you will remember when they told her that she was going to live a long life. And you remember when you realized they lied. But you did not know then that the destiny of time and the destiny of life were not the same destiny. They were not written on the forehead but in the palm.

And instead of the clock, you will then turn to the sun and the moon. You will find them more accurate. And you will return to your palm. And the water will flow. And Nar will feel consoled. And you will change the battery in the clock. But it won’t fix the clock. Because the clockmaker can’t read your time. And unwittingly, you wind the clock, hoping to start over again.

And if you wind it the opposite way, will time turn itself back? Lately, time seems to always be running. You are behind, watching from a past. You can only hear a story once sung to you. You can’t warn her so she can live, even with your song.

You are afraid to lift your pen from the paper. But your hand slips. Your hand slips and you draw a line into your palm. Black lines. And now you are singing for her—regardless. And looking into your palm, you start to imitate the branches with your pen. And now your palm is black. And the clock’s hand plays with yours. But you retort, writing ferociously. You are competing against your shadow, realizing later it is not your own. And they visit you, one by one. Each woman and her invention of letters. But the pen does not detach itself from the paper. And the letters can’t be translated. And for the person waiting, time has a different meaning. And the clock is not working, still. You were lazy and didn’t change the battery. You were waiting.

And so, you—writing, copying, singing. Where do you write about their shadows? Those shadows: all the women that arrived, but where did they go? That penned with unknown names, not their own. The eyewitness remained only time, before time existed. Standing before the hand. And now that your time has come, you decided you should change the battery. Then you find the clock broken.

And that day came. And the time has come. And the clock has stopped. But you already annotated it in your palm, and titled it—you gave these women a name who had no name. You wrote them in a history, others tried to destroy.