Remembering My Husband, Moku o Lo‘e, 1978
Unloading the ski
boat, he piles our
high on the shore. A friend runs
the length of the beach, his German shepherd following
scattered sand in the air.
We open our coolers
searching for beer,
lean back at last, looking at the coastline. All we’ve left
there across the bay—our small child, our pole house,
the untended garden, unpaid bills.
Now just the sounds
of the sea rolling
in. At dusk
the first Windward lights blink on,
the Kane’ohe coast bright
as if strung with rhinestones and
this quiet. Eight
and we can find nothing to say to each other.
We walk off to the hills behind us looking for firewood
knowing, even in July, it will be cold by nightfall.
My husband pours
gasoline over the
dry kiawe branches
we’ve heaped on the sand
and strikes a match. The flare
attracts our friend and we welcome him back,
joke and jostle, fight against
the clarity such nights force upon us.