Old Photographs

 

One of my favourite hobbies is looking through old photographs. I love the way they make me feel - as though we have come from somewhere. Somewhere innocent. We don’t just exist in time and space - we have a story.

This picture transports me to before everything broke. Before our families fell to pieces, before my grandfather (dedeh) passed away, before this house was sold, before my grandmother had dementia, before we became strangers. It is Christmas Eve, ‘96. My dedeh probably insisted (as he always would) this his sons and their families all got together at his home for lunch. And not only on special occasions, but on Sundays too. He hated going out, to him there was nothing better than having his family under his roof, eating, drinking, talking and laughing.

In this photograph the Geroyan Grandkids are hanging out at the granny flat behind the house, with George our eldest (and therefore most trusted) cousin barbecuing what was probably a left over meat skewer on the “manghal”. I remember the smells and tastes of the day, they were like any other day we all got together. The air tasted like scotch and smoke, Armenian music in the background, laughter and loud small talk.

I laugh each time I look at this picture because it is so tale telling and raw. I have always had an insatiable appetite, obvious as I probably could not wait and am already eating. My sister, Alissa is trying so hard to be close to George, the leader who is cooking and posing at the same time, showing off intense “swagger” in his basketball jersey. And sweet and humble Kristina and Anita, who were always impeccably dressed and even better behaved.

Also, I would like to note that I was not in charge of the styling of my hair, and have had numerous discussions with my seemingly cruel mother about why she would subject me (and subsequently herself) to such humiliation.