A small village called Pitrags (or Pitrõg in its original Livonian) stands in Courland nestled against the rolling sea and ambrosial trees. It is my family’s summer home — in truth, many snow-laced days have passed here too. It is a small wood cabin with a handy hearth. From my grandfather, I once learned how to assemble the logs into a pyramidal shape — neat enough to light and keep burning. It is warmth and coldness simultaneously.
On this beach I learned to walk. I couldn't stand the rough graze of the sand on my skin. So I refused, leaned on my soft, smooth extremities, activated the quadratus lumborum, and toddled away.
To my mom’s dismay, the trees surrounding our cottage were chopped down by a new, indiscernible inhabitant. This house is dearer to her than any other material possession. It is a link to a past dream — a mirage and courage. And proof — that with strong foundations anything will stand through tribulations. The cleaved trees mar that. They immutably change the previously stable.
My dad lingers in the corners. He wanders the roads and speaks to the neighbors. The sea roars at a lower pitch and the bird songs fall silent as eternal slumber envelops the land. The smell of smoked flounder plagues me even back in the streets of Riga — taking no notice of the two-hundred-kilometer distance.
He never did get to rest here. The marine air never reached his remains. Instead, the ashes lay still under densely-packed earth in the childhood city he left behind. He was never motionless. Even in death, it should not have been his fate.
My lungs heave in the cold air. It stings and awakens something in me. I used to say being here causes only depressive episodes, as a plea to just stay home. Facing the truth of sorrow buried but not resolved is regrettably uncomfortable. As the years pass and I grow into a form resembling adult, I feel the impact sprout from a bud to a branching flora of unknown origin. I see a father hug his daughter and tears well up in my eyes. I expect acquaintances and the dads of my friends to become paternal figures. I cry when they don’t. I’m increasingly too needy and too scared. Like the pocket-sized pine trees mom hopes to plant one day — on land stolen and bought back again.
Is it better to know or not to know? Is it better to remember? From a fish-eye perspective, everyone believes the opposite of their predicament. I think grasping the hardened lines of my dad’s face would’ve taught me something. Instead, I dream of a mirror. It holds promise and, with it, excitement. Each time it shatters. The damp, sacred soil clings and my porous skin can only absorb.
The sea is grief in many variations, all of which my mom captures, and now they sit idly somewhere in her gallery; some even under favorites. It can be thunderous, peaceful, noncommittal, or even prodding. During the wild summer winds, I leap into the waves and choose to feel only freedom.
Maybe the association arose because of my dad’s gravestone — a proud wave sailing up, his name engraved on the bottom left corner. I visit when it’s cold and can never stay too long. It is cold, after all.
The 15% I own of the property haunts in a pleading trill, it haunts: what will you do with me one day, youth? I decide not to think about it yet. The countryside is for peace. During the time of no crowds, I used to ride my bike. Not to the left — where the sea was only minutes away —, but to the right. Deeper into the forest. I kept going until I found a new compelling corner to dwell in. I sat and watched, and dreamed. Sometimes of building a library there — three stories and stained glass windows, vines clawing up. I used to love pondering.
A place is a symbol. And Pitrags is one to be interpreted. But at its core, it is silence — a silence that is never truly quiet. It speaks to everyone who is invited. It pierces all three meninges of the brain and latches.
My mom now utilises the house as an Airbnb. Its air fills with new memories and personas, and the crawling spiders gain new stock to spy on. But there will always be a vacancy.
The light bulbs flicker.
A melody plays from far away…
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away