An Open Letter To My Omit

Omīt,

Generations span widely in our family, belated by a variety of hardships. Escaping Latvia in your thirties postponed the birth of my mother, which meant I did not have the pleasure of knowing you until you were already in your eighties. My memories of you are sweet but fragmented through a language barrier and the foggy lens of a young child.

In my eyes, you were reserved; a modest homemaker and caregiver that never asked for much and accepted what she was given. By some, you were taken for granted, and for better or worse, I began to see a lot of myself in you as I got older.

You suffered a bad accident when I was around ten years old. Your health deteriorated rapidly, as did your ability to communicate in English. Advocating for your wellbeing and providing meaningful company became a challenge. Our visits were reduced to a kiss on the forehead and silence, and I am ashamed to admit there were times that I dreaded going. When you died in 2006, we had no more memories to make and I felt robbed.

But something amazing happens after a person has passed; they become stories. I have learned so much about you since you have been gone. By many, you are remembered as a fiercely independent and strongly willed woman. A natural born leader who knew her worth and the worth of others, and who fought to protect it. I become more inspired by you with each story I have been told.

Prior to becoming my grandmother, you were head nurse at a prominent hospital in Latvia’s capital during Soviet occupation. You butted heads with your oppressors, and led acts of defiance for the good of your country. When the Soviets were overthrown, it was you that smashed the bust of our rival leader’s likeness, and it was you that sewed Latvia’s flag using hospital linens and hung it proudly from the windows. With brazen stories like these, it is hard to imagine I once saw myself in you.

I am thankful to continue getting to know you, Omīt. In addition to seeking out new stories, I seize opportunities that help me better understand you; most notably folk dancing, purchasing a cabin at the Latvian camp where you spent many summers and learning your native tongue. Feeling connected to you as I write my own story has been your greatest gift.

Written for Milda Gulbis by Leah Houston