The story was originally published on Aztag Daily in Western Armenian.
It’s already been a week, and things have only gotten harder for us all.
Zaven jan, one day, I’ll sit my grandkids down and tell them all about you. I’ll tell them about you, the guy full of so much love and joy to spread. The one who never hurt a soul, the one nobody disliked. I’ll tell them about how fun you were, how kind and patient you were.
I’ll remember you never hesitated to come over with zaatar and jebne from Bechara to boost my paper-writing motivation. I’ll remember you through undercooked pasta at Sonia’s, Kettle Cooked chips at Carmen’s, takeout and kebabs at Serge’s, dinners with Lara, Alik, and Pardy, jogs with Karin, wine at mine, and dry spongecakes at yours; the list is infinite, my examples are limited. You’ve managed to infinitely serve joy to those around you.
I’ll tell them about all the times you didn’t drink so you could drive us home after events and parties, in the car that killed you.
Around a year ago, as we left a Christmas party, we caught a guy who had shattered your car windows and was about to hot-wire it. He was seconds away from stealing it and driving away. We caught him dead in his act. Maybe we should’ve let him steal the car instead of letting the car steal you from us.
I’ll remember you chased and caught my dog as she tried to run away, even though you didn’t like dogs.
I’ll remember how you were (and still are) one of six emergency contacts on my phone.
I giggle when I remember that the last time I saw you was at Basterma Mano, in Bourj Hammoud, a month ago, and you would’ve found this really funny. We looked into potential Master’s degrees you could pursue.
I’ll remember you through the group trips and sandy tents of Lake Sevan, the mountainous camps in Lebanon. I’ll remember your screams of excitement on every. single. rollercoaster. you rode at Yerevan Park. I’ll remember you through the countless McDonald’s trips, I don’t know if I wanna have McNuggets anymore if we’re not sharing. I’ll remember you through that one cheesy Eurovision song. I’ll remember jogging, camping, hiking, and biking with you.
But most of all, I’ll remember you in your car. On road trips, on study trips, on weekdays, and on weekends. I’ll remember you in the silver Kia you had, with its AUX chord and the iPhone dongle ready to go. The dongle was for us, you didn’t use an iPhone.
I’ll remember you through the scratch scar I have under my beard, from you, from kindergarten. Who knew I’d come to appreciate it?
I’ll tell my grandkids all about you, and hope they grow up to be half the kind person you were.
It’ll be your birthday in two weeks, Zaven… how should we celebrate?
We love you, brother. You left a very, very big hole in our hearts, Zaven. I’ll remember you through happy memories — the Zaven full of life and joy — but nothing feels happy right now.