Michael Minassian: THE GREAT DEPRESSION

In 1929, my grandfather’s boss 

at Hovanian Oriental Carpets 

ran out of money, so paid him his wages 

in brightly woven rugs from Armenia, Turkey,

Afghanistan and China, “Take this, home,”

the owner said, “d’ram cheega.”

So week after week he brought home carpets,

tacking them to the floors then the walls 

of the three bedroom apartment 

in the Bronx, using a large 

Persian rug as a bedspread, 

and another to protect the couch.

Then my grandmother covered 

the kitchen table, refrigerator, and stove,

the bathtub, toilet, and sink;

next, she stitched together clothes:

pants, shirts, underwear, and socks,

and convinced the cobbler down the block

to make shoes for the whole neighborhood;

then they lined the street and sidewalk

with carpets and tapestries, remnants, and rugs.

Soon you could walk barefoot on Bathgate Avenue,

while up in the apartment, my grandmother 

cut strips of fabric to bake or fry,

serving the pieces mixed with rice pilaf,

or toasting thin slices in the morning,

stuffing the rest into the coffee grinder

boiling it down as thick as Turkish coffee,

a stiff bitter tonic

served with salt and sand.

Michael Minassian

"The Great Depression" was originally published in the Red Earth Review 's Summer 2015 issue.