The Wooden Village Part 1
As I began to know Narine the first few months in Noyemberyan, she told me often of a magical place that she called the wooden village. Every time she spoke of it, she had the look of someone much older than she remembering sacred moments of a past well spent. Her eyes would sparkle as though there was a candle inside illuminating the wrinkles of her brain to unfold the hidden mysteries. A smile would creep upon her face like the smile of someone remembering the taste of their favorite dessert or a first kiss. I wanted to know more, and she would always tell me one day we will visit, and she would tell me more. In October, I was allowed to go with her family that has become like my family to celebrate her birthday. She had selected the site of her celebration as the khachkar at the top of the mountain followed by a visit to places they played and the wooden village. The day was so overcast and cold. I have documented that ...