Armen Bacon

Armen D. Bacon


Armen D. Bacon: Celebrating William Saroyan

My mother knows of my obsession with William Saroyan, and as I begin this essay, she is quick to remind me he ate dinner once at our home in the late ’50s. Neither of us can fill in the narrative of how or why he showed up at our doorstep. Not knowing, of course, creates mystery and intrigue, a sheer heyday for my imagination, although such vague recollection disappoints the yearning to discern details or anything that might bring him back to life.

Armen Bacon

Armen D. Bacon: Hello 12; meet my grandson

We both ordered lasagna, and I smiled to myself thinking he inherited my love for wide noodles and cheese smothered in red sauce. Watching him peruse the menu, placing the linen napkin gracefully across his lap (when did he learn to do that?), my eyes moved from his aqua blue shirt to those milk chocolate eyes laced with hazelnut. He was more handsome now than cute. Few remnants of the once little boy remained.

Armen Bacon

Armen D. Bacon: Arrivals, departures and love – everywhere

Our 20th anniversary trip to Paris coincided with TWA Flight 800, which crashed into the Atlantic killing 220 passengers

A total of 47 calls were on our phone machine when we arrived back home

In the bustling city of airports, couples are kissing; parents embrace, soothe cranky toddlers; women walk arm in arm with daughters

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