*Excerpts taken from my journal, Oahu 2007-2008
The waves tumble onto shore
faster and more violently than they did this time last year. Everything looks like it has no control
against this wind. The wind pushes the
water, pushes the birds…the tree branches, the clouds, my hair—even my water
bottle quivers beside me. Coral is
shoved onto shore and then is yanked back into the water by grabbing
waves. The tide is coming in, and when
it leaves again, the shore will be sprinkled with tiny, broken shells.
It has been exactly one year
since I was sitting against this tree, watching the waves come in. I have been moved by the winds also, unable
to object, but just tumbling in and over myself. When one is pushed like this, change is
inevitable. Last year, I wrote a letter
to Ibey and Dad-dad. This year, the
letter still sits in my journal unmoved—and Ibey is gone. My letter cannot be postmarked and delivered
to her. Sometimes I think I can feel her
in the wind and in the rain. It’s almost
as if my thoughts no longer have to be stamped and postmarked to be delivered
to her. It’s like she knows as soon as I
think them, but the tears still fall, and the rain still comes. The ocean looks darker than it should.
* * * * *
I got to come home for Christmas
break, but the night before I was supposed to fly back to Oahu, Ibey was taken
to the hospital. I slept in a cot beside
her bed. I heard the beeping and vaguely
remember nurses rushing in to tend to her.
Instead of waking up, I wanted to stay in my dream world. I was scared…and now I feel so guilty for
being unconscious for even one minute of her final hours here. The doctors had talked to us about hospice
care—they said she had a few months left.
I didn’t know yet, but they were wrong.
I’m glad I got to hold her
hand. I rubbed her fingers and then
squeezed her palms. I was so
scared. I didn’t know what I was
supposed to do for her. I thought about
everything I wanted to tell her, but I didn’t know how to bring it up. I was told not to let on about how bad the
tear in her artery was. I rehearsed what
I would say, but she was gone before the words were ready.
When morning came, I watched snow
fall outside her hospital window, like white cotton balls waltzing with
Tennessee wind. More family arrived and shared
stories around her hospital bed. She was
alive with laughter, and we all huddled in to feel that warmth that radiated
from the fire of her soul. We were all
children again…scared and sad, happy and confused.
I planned to go home and shower,
and return the following day. I kissed
her on the forehead and said, “I love you.”
As I walked out the door, I turned around to see her smiling face. “I’ll be back in the morning,” I called and disappeared
around the corner. I had no idea that
this would be the last time I would see her alive.
* * * * *
I cried and wailed, letting out
sounds that I didn’t even know I was capable of making. My body shook and heaved as all of the love
she had planted in my heart burst forth into unformed words because I didn’t
know how to say, “Goodbye, Thank you, and I love you” to someone who I’d never
see again. I still trembled at the
thought of her leaving. I wanted to
show her that I had learned the lessons she had taught me.
