On a Small Hill Was Charents' Arch

Soon we returned to the cab, then on to Garni, visiting a friend and warming up. The sun began to set and we were on our way back. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the white hills and valleys were covered in an impenetrable dark. The lights of the cab barely lit the road before us, but soon we were home, in the city of Yerevan.

 The cab stopped between Yerevan and Garni. We stepped out and were quickly assaulted by the glacial air. A powerful wind swept over the plains and hills, seemingly collecting the cold and bringing it right to us. We were surrounded by white, and aside from the flattened road, unsure where the actual ground was in relation to the snow. 

Near us, on a small hill, was Charents' Arch, built in memory of the poet. On a clear day, passed the valley and farms, there would be a beautiful view of Ararat. This was a rarity in winter, where clouds and snow and mist blocked the view and made the daytime feel like it was in permanent dusk. 

This day, Ararat peaked above the cloud line, Sis, the smaller peak, barely visible but present as well. 

I stepped toward the arch and fell forward into the snow. The snowfall was taller than I was, and I was forced to forge a path to the stairs eventually leading upwards. By the time I reached the top, not a long time mind you, I was wet and shivering, my clothes drenched in melted snow. 

We stood under the arch, taking in the sight. I had never really seen a scene like this before in my life. The transformation of vibrant fields of green and brown turned a clean undisturbed white. It felt as though I was on an alien world, one that only exists for months before disappearing. 

The thought occurred to me that snow had fallen here for countless centuries. That my ancestors lived through these winters. That as I was growing up in the seasonless city of Los Angeles, for three months of the year, every year the land looked like this. And now, for the first time in twenty-six years, I too had not experienced this sight. 

Soon enough a flurry of snowflakes covered the city in white. 

The morning after, the snow had melted, having turned to mud and ice, and then soon after that winter turned to spring. In the years that followed there was snow, but never like the snow on that trip to Garni.