Bulghur no. 1
the finest grind
She organized her drawers, collected a few things up for donation, and took them to the center where a team is distributing clothes and essential items for displaced people. There are talks of ground forces entering the country, and as she took her first sip of Nescafé with a spoon in her “World’s Best Teacher” mug, I had the nerve to ask if it was soup. We loosely check on each other—nine strangers connected by heritage and a love for writing.
The Armenian letter ղ, transliterated as “gh” or “ghat,” is a voiced uvular fricative (in both modern Eastern and Western Armenian). It is a guttural, gargling sound produced in the back of the throat, often described as similar to a French “r” (as in Paris or rouge)
“Hello, are we meeting now?”
“I am planning on it.”
The conversation goes towards the various finenesses of bulghur: the coarser one for pilaf, the finer one with no real need to cook with heat. I am still unsure what is done with No. 2 and No. 3.
“When I first got married I wanted to make ‘eech’ and I cooked the fine bulghur…I had no idea that it didn’t need to be cooked.”
On March 4th, “So many people have been displaced from the South…. Last night there was an explosion in the Hazmieh area, which is so much closer to us.”
On this same day, my friend had left his body for eight days now. In utter disbelief, yet life continued.
“Ok, ladies…I must end the Zoom call early. I only have 40 minutes. I hope you continue the chat. I have to go get ready for my friend’s funeral services today. It has not really sunk in yet for me.”
On March 2nd, “Poor Lebanon can’t get a break! I hope you and your family remain safe! Sending you so much love!”
Also that day, “I’m so sorry to hear that you’re going through this again. May this be short-lived.”
These nine strangers, who are now friends, check in on each other.
On the recent morning call, another friend: “My son may have to go serve in the German army and fight against the Russians. He’s gotten three invitations to join. I would not have birthed my sons if I knew that they had to go fight in a war…and against the Russians.”
On March 2nd, “If you need to, you can get on a plane to Frankfurt or Stuttgart or Munich, and I would pick you and your family up to stay with us for as long as you need to.”
A few minutes later, “I’m serious.”
Four minutes later, “I don’t know what to say. I pray for your protection, the protection of your family and loved ones, and all the innocent people of the region.”
On March 14th, my friend’s body was finally laid to rest eighteen days after his last breath at the same hospital I was birthed about fourty three years ago. I have known him for thirty six of that.
This does not feel real. “It all feels like a dream,” said a friend as we left his parents’ house after the services, where we gathered and remembered him a bit more.
My friend visiting from the North, just for two days:
“Do you guys want to continue to hang out? I want to be with you guys.”
“Sure, we can go over to my place.”
A few minutes later, a quick journey from Burbank to Los Feliz, three bottles of wine in tow: a sparkling macerated orange, a special red called “Ser”, and a chilled white. My friend liked options and the finer things in life.
“Hey, would you mind ordering some food?”
“We’re here, where are you?”
“I’ll just get the family style.”
Family comes in countless forms.
“Here’s my door code, just go in….Wait!!!..don’t repeat it out loud as you punch it in!” my friend and I laugh in the car as my friend loudly repeats the six-digit number twice. “We are five minutes away, just go in.”
“Does anyone want the rest of this tabouleh?” I asked the group.
I prefer no. 1 for the parsley based salad, but I’m sure some use no. 2.
She knew I was probably thinking my house is a mess. It was not. She began tidying things, moving chargers and electronics to my desk. She’s allowed to do that. Anyone who gets the code to go in to my house is allowed to treat my home as theirs.
“Shoes on or off?”
“I don’t care…whatever feels comfortable today.”
March 15th. Does one check in or just let be?
I wonder what my friend cooked for her family today?
I wonder how my friend’s mother wakes up this morning?
I wonder how my friend’s journey up north will feel like?
I wonder if it is a good idea to be teaching in a few hours?
“Do you know if the class tomorrow will be intense or on the softer side?” my friend who’s been attending my Sunday morning sessions asked while we were all seated together going in and out of stories about our friend who passed.
“Oh, I don’t know!”
“I love that response.”
After my practice this morning at 4 a.m., I think gentleness. Yeah, a gentle practice. But the plan was…
My friend had a lot of plans and dreams. All gone with him. He lived. He lived fully—not slowly, but deeply. He lives differently, through our memories and energetically.
“Sounds like an evening filled with love…good morning,” my partner texts from Austin.
The message is always love. My friend was an agent of love. His spirit of love remains. That energy can neither be destroyed nor created, just transformed. It is law.
The Ides of March, a great day to spread some love. The perfect season to chop up some parsley, tomato, onion, mint and let some no. 1 bulghur sit in tomato juice. Some fine olive oil and freshly picked lemons from a tree.
My friend loved the finest things in life, blending that with the simple pleasures of laying around and doing nothing after doing everything.
Finely chop the parsley and mint.
Finally, it is settling in that his body has been put to rest.
His soul, may it find eternal peace.
Hratch Mkrtumyan’s time here is done.
Peace. The index and the middle fingers spread slightly apart. The same two fingers that delighted and held the finest grass rolled into a proper joint.
My friend craved deeply peace and love.
May we all find semblance of eternal peace while here on earth.
May we all continue to love amidst it all.
May our quest for fineness and goodness begin and end within.