A black and white photograph of a woman with dark hair that’s separated in the middle and tied back. Her lips are thin, almost nonexistent. Her face is round. The lines on her face are rough but her skin is as white as the snow and as tender as a bird’s feather. The wrinkles around her eyes are deep. The look in her dark eyes is fierce. There’s a song in those eyes, a silent song about a past that authored the rough lines on her face.

A voiceless song of an orphan village girl living with a foster family in an Eastern village in Armenia called Gavar.

A voiceless song of a man named Vazgen and their marriage.

A voiceless song of a new life and two kids.

A voiceless song of the wheels of a wooden cart.

A voiceless song of the pain that comes with loss.

A voiceless song of the Sun that shone.

***

A marble wall and four people standing in front of it. On the left, a middle-aged woman with short hair and a white robe. Next to her, a young woman with dark short hair and a blue dress. Next to her, a young, thin man wearing a white T-shirt and black jeans. In his arms, a newborn baby. On his right, another middle-aged woman with short hair and bangs. Different pairs of eyes, all singing the same silent song.

A song about the biggest Avenue in the city of Yerevan.

A song about Margaryan Maternity Hospital on that avenue.

A song about a hot July night.

A song about a long labor.

A song about a firstborn.

***

There’s a huge, rectangular, vintage photo album sitting in one of the drawers in our house. I remember looking through it as a kid while my grandpa told me stories about the woman in the photograph. I used to visit her grave with him once a year. We’d take the bus, get off, walk to a cemetery, and put yellow flowers near her gravestone.

She had two sons. One of them is my grandfather. His younger brother died as a kid when a wooden cart ran him over. I remember teardrops forming in the corners of my granpa’s bloodshot and tired eyes when he was telling me that story. The boy’s name was Hayk. My father is named after him.

I was the firstborn to my parents. They wanted to name me Sarah. My family and I are biblical Christians, so it was a nice name in a lot of senses. But my grandpa declared: “You name her after my mother or I will not speak with you ever again.”

***

Maybe a few decades later my grandkid or great-grandkid will look at one of my parents’ photographs, or maybe my own, to find the eyes and the face the owner of which they were named after. And maybe they’ll find the silent songs in those photographs as I’m finding them now, intertwined and free.