The Lost Brothers of Zeitoun

At night a shot or two rings out. Vartan turns over and looks at his wife safely on the side of the bed away from the window. He senses the difference between sounds of alcohol fueled rounds, and those from long ago, booted hate filled men. Sunland-Tujunga. The late night discharges of aimless despair. Most early Saturdays, he leans on the same white wall, black grilled windows, no signs, no numbers. The corner of his street and Foothill Boulevard. He and his friend, Marhar, smoke in the morning sun. They are disturbed only by an occasional car with an emboldened exhaust. They know from passed down stories the deep chill of Zeitoun, the snow, the shooting, the running. The hiding in caves. The red lines in the snow. They know in their veins who they are, even against this warm, white, unblemished, smooth wall. They are all the lost brothers. Boys. They shiver. They weren’t there. It was too long ago. They were there. Instead, one tells a story of last night’s Knuckle-Bones game and what they won or lost. It is a better to laugh, shake the head. Not bury one on top of the other.