It dawned on me today that people are not immortal. I learned that lesson with Ago. Somewhere, in the back of my brain, I truly believed that he was not going to leave this earth. I mean come on people, he basically outlived and survived a lot of things. He was a survivor and nothing could get to him. Genocide? Nope. Communism? He's just left (escaped is really the proper word though). Broken arm? No sweat. This man started using a treadmill in his nineties; he wasn't going anywhere!

But there where other plans for him. It was his time. He had lived for ninety-four years. And what was he living for? He took care of himself extremely well-why? What did he want to see?

Yes of course, he wanted to live for his family. He wanted to see my brother and I grow up, go to college, and live our lives, as with the rest of the family: his daughter (my mother), son-in-law and niece. But I like to think that he was peace with that. He knew we'd be okay.

About two months before he passed, my mother found The Armenian Golgotha translated into English. This book was written in Armenian by an Armenian priest, Grigoris Balakian. In it is a passage about Ago's father and how he died. Even Ago is mentioned. (I need to go back through the passage. I can't believe that I do not have a copy of this book). All of his life there was Ago's father mentioned...proof of existence...but only people who could read Armenian knew. In translation, there was Ago's father in English, in writing, through this the whole world knew that the Armenian Genocide was not a lie, it actually had happened, and Ago's father was a victim. And I like to think that with the translation of this book, Ago became at peace. He was at peace knowing that his legacy, that his father's legacy lives on.