Adele Ne Jame

Remembering My Husband, Moku o Lo‘e, 1978

 

Unloading the ski boat, he piles our camping gear
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 years
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.

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