After bowls of kufta, platters of dolma,the clatter of pistachio shells and auntsand uncles simmering over with grief,we sought the basement’s refuge.We were chins and limbs and kneescriss-crossed applesauce on leather couches,across rust carpet, a dozen cousins in wrinkled,nearly new suits and navy blue dresses.Forgotten for a few hours, a VHS of Fatal Attractiondiscovered. I tried to forget my grandfather’s howlin the church’s incense fog, an animal sound I thoughtwas laughter so I laughed, but he wasn’t laughing, no one was.It was my first funeral, and now I was watchingelevator sex and rabbits in saucepans and Glenn Closewho reminded me of my mother until she squeezedher bloody wrists against the good father’s cheeks.I held my pee until it burned inside me, beggedmy older cousin to accompany me to the toilet.She giggled, embarrassed, wouldn’t come in,only stood by the door to keep watching the screen.I could still see Glenn Close’s blonde permspring from the bathtub, from behind my mirror’sreflection, blood and butcher knives and handsaround women’s throats hidden everywhere.I wandered upstairs where the adults galaxiedaround our grandfather, a captivated audienceof another film, except the film was him. I slunkpast knees and porcelain cups of Armenian coffee.His words were relics gathered by the menwith thick palms, by women with scarlet fingernails.My mother leaned toward my aunt who translatedeach story shard into English. I rested my ear on her lap.He spoke, for the first time, of his childhood,his father shot with the other men, the marchesto nowhere, his grandmother, mother,discarded like husks along the road.