On Jan. 26, on the eve of my 39th birthday, my friend Armine brought me a few spoonfuls of coffee — she had kept it as a precious gift for me, knowing the outsized role the drink plays in my life. I miss its aroma the most. Another friend, Sarine, had called from Yerevan the day before and asked if I at least had a small cake. I reassured her that having coffee was enough. The next morning, the doorbell woke me up: There stood Sarine’s sister, with a small homemade gata, a traditional Armenian sweet bread, baked by their mother. I allowed myself one candle for my besieged birthday, and placed it on top of the gata. A birthday candle is a luxury, since they are now our only evening light.