May The End Be Well For All

The tradition of toast-giving has followed my family through centuries and continents. This essay tells the tale of one family’s survival and the toasts—poignant and amusing—that have brought together generations in grief and celebration.

- Marianna Pogosyan

The best place to lose our wiggly teeth was under grandma’s queen-sized dining table, with a mouth full of grilled pork and fresh blood. It was there—veiled by the ivory of her vinyl tablecloth, alongside the dressed feet of our guests, beneath a spread of regal fodder—where childhood happiness dwelled. There, we whispered secrets. There, we pursed stolen cigarettes between our lips. There, we swapped pigeon feathers and sniffed foreign bubble gum wrappers.There, we untied Uncle Rob’s shoelaces and counted the stitched holes of Aunt Rosa’s nude hosiery. There, we raised our plastic mugs with tarragon lemonade and said toasts: To the boys we loved loving us back! To living till one hundred! To meeting Michael Jackson!