I came to Yerevan to thank him. I arrived too late

Over the years, we lost touch. I changed my email, our old correspondence disappeared, but I never forgot Akop. From time to time, I would think: One day I should return to Yerevan, find him, thank him personally, and sit with him to talk about literature and life.

This year, that “one day” finally came.

Before my trip, I managed to find his old email address and wrote to him. There was no reply. My Armenian friend Lilit S. Meliksetyan also tried to help me find him through Facebook, but we could not reach him.

Then, unexpectedly, one day my phone rang.

It was Akop!

He had seen my message and found my WhatsApp number. Because he was already ill, he could not reply by email, but he managed to call me. We spoke warmly. I told him I was coming to Yerevan and would see him soon.

He was happy.

Last Sunday I arrived in Armenia and called his number.

His sister answered.

Akop had passed away at the age of 73. Only recently.

I had come to Yerevan hoping to hug him, thank him for carrying my poems into another language, and talk about all the years that had passed.

Instead, I met his sister Sveta, his brother Armen, visited his home, saw his books, and heard stories about his final days.

It was painful and strangely beautiful to be so close to someone I had come so far to meet, yet only find his presence in the places and people he left behind.

A translator does something extraordinary: he gives another life to someone else’s words.

Fourteen years ago, Akop gave my poems a new life in Armenian.

This time, I came to Yerevan carrying my gratitude.

I wish I could have told him in person.

I wish we had one more conversation.

Thank you, Akop.

I came to Yerevan looking for my translator.

I left with his memory.

May he rest in peace. May his words and the words he carried for others continue to live.