#30 (1350) 29.07.2020 – 04.08.2020
“The land was thirsty,” says Grandpa Haykaz, shoveling the riverbed. The water gurgles, wetting the cracked lips of the soil. And suddenly, over the years, a picture of a small garden buried in the green wakes up. My father dug the shovel into the ground and hung his white shirt on an apricot branch.