Omie would have been 99 years old today. It’s the first thought I had when I glanced at the calendar saw it was November 4th.
Unfortunately, my mind does a good job at shielding me from thinking about her often. Even though it’s been seven years, I still can’t allow myself to think about her too deeply. It’s a kind of grief that no matter the amount of time that passes, if I sit with it for too long, it will consume me. When I was younger I used to ask my mom about her dad. She lost him when she was 19 and still to this day as a 60 year old woman, she can’t recall memories of him without crying. She usually changes the subject at a certain point, I’m assuming for the same reason I do when it comes to Omie.
Sometimes I find myself at a confusing crossroads when it comes to memories and recalling the essence of a person who’s no longer here. I don’t know how to honor them in my own memory and give myself the space to feel sad without overdoing it. I haven’t struck the balance, yet. On the contrary, I don’t want to let my self-protective measures wipe them away from my long-term storage. When Omie passed away, I took a few of her scarves and pieces of clothing and put them into two ziplock bags. The smell of her house is one that could catapult me back to 1997 and make me feel both comforted and tormented. On a day like today, I’ll grab that bag from the top of my closet and hold one of her things close to my face, just so I can remember.
I wrote in my journal today and it got me thinking about the holidays, celebrations and how dull they’ve felt since Omie wasn’t here anymore. I’ve done my best over the years but no doubt, the light has dimmed. When I think of Thanksgiving or Christmas, I think of her apartment and the small decorations she’d place throughout her space. In the off-season, they lived in a little recycled cardboard box labeled with the appropriate holiday in her laundry room storage closet. At Christmas, she’d put out an animated skating rink. She’d garnish her furniture with glistening garland. She exchanged the tablecloths for ones with poinsettias or Chritmas trees. We’d drink our hot chocolate out of seasonal mugs for a few weeks. In the kitchen, she’d have the radio on the station that played Christmas songs 24/7. Her rituals weren’t forced or manufactured. They were subtle and authentic.
Almost ten years ago, she had to move to an assisted living facility. I had just graduated college and I was still coming home regularly to visit. This would be the first Christmas she didn’t spend at her home, our home. The condo where she had spent nearly thirty years was frozen in time, just as she left it. My brother was also visiting home for Christmas that year and we spent a lot of time aimlessly driving around our hometown and stopping at gas stations for coffee.
One night, we had the idea to go over to Omie’s condo and decorate it for Christmas. We located her box of decorations and did our best to make it feel like it used to. As soon as it got dark, we drove over to her assisted living facility and essentially kidnapped her. We checked her out of the facility, got her down to the lobby and into the car. We drove the eight minutes to her house and she quickly realized where we were going. We helped her up the flight of stairs to her front door and brought her into the living room. We made food together and celebrated Christmas like we always had, just the three of us.
My best friend asked me once if I could have say, 5 doors that I could walk through at any point, which ones would I choose? It could be anywhere in the world, any period of time. This one would be one of them. I would give anything to walk through that front door and see Omie sitting at the counter, drinking her coffee, eating her rye toast, listening to the radio. To be able to sit in her living room and watch it snow while we watch Charlie Brown. To eat apple pancakes and play cards at her dining room table. I don’t even need the other four doors, that’s all I want.
When I think of Omie’s birthday, I think about all the time that’s gone by since we last saw each other. I think about all the things I’d want to tell her. I wonder what she’d think about me living in Germany. I wish I could tell her about all the things I’ve learned and how much I look to her in times when I need advice—how I strive to be like her in every way. My apartment feels like hers and that’s by design. I now have a little recycled cardboard box with decorations for Christmas, a tradition or ritual I haven’t allowed myself to previously partake.
And today, I’ll do something for her in some way. Whether it’s having a piece of cake (or strudel) or lighting a candle in a church. I don’t want to forget her. I can’t.
Happy Birthday, Omie. Alles Gute zum Gerburtstag. Ich liebe dich für immer.
