Holding a long wooden dowel in her hand
A learned tradition from her former land
She batted and fluffed until it was full
the cushiony and treasured pure lambswool
With heavy needle and weighty thread
she stitched long X’s across the spread
My hands wrapped around honey chai in a mug
I watched cross-legged on the Oriental rug;
its secret symbols and warm colored hues
crimson reds, olive greens and lapis blues
The dobrag resting between two floral sheets
my grandmother’s yorghan was nearly complete
She measured and folded and hemmed all four sides
carefully looping thread in short, even strides
As her sweet singing voice surrounded the room
I closed my eyes and listened to a hymnal tune
She scooped up the quilt, so soft and downy
A piece of her past she handed to me
That night, curled inside of my warm yorghan
I dreamed of her once peaceful Hayastan
As an old woman now I think of my mommy
with a warm, loving heart for my sweet yorghani
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