One day a few weeks ago, I glanced over and noticed Lilinoe taking a peaceful afternoon nap. The fan was blowing gently, the pillows propped perfectly and her hands gently clasped over her bosom. I was intrigued by the vision, it was familiar but I couldn’t understand why her position at the time warmed my heart. Pleased to see her at rest, a rare moment, I allowed the moment to pass without further thought.
Yesterday we sat on our living room couch and were talking about everything and nothing in particular when I remembered her nap. As I began to describe my vision, I realized the source of the familiarity, the reason why the moment warmed my heart. And, I began sobbing.
Two years ago I drove to the Castle Medical Center in Kaneohe to visit my maternal grand-aunt, Aunty Ulu. As I walked into her assigned hospital room, she was laying in her slightly inclined bed with pillows perfectly propped, and her hands gently clasped over her bosom.
I don’t know if I woke her by my touch or my will, but she opened her eyes to greet me. Clouded by her illness and medication I almost needed to introduce myself. It didn’t take long before she said, “Oh my Nina!” I braved a random conversation with her about the food and she shared how my cousin Jaylene had cooked her some fried aku and brought her some for dinner the other night. I soon realized that I wasn’t there to visit but to say goodbye.
Aunty Ulu was the youngest sister of my maternal grandmother, my Nanny as we affectionately called her, probably because she felt she was too young and glamorous to be called anything else. Aunty Ulu barely stood five feet tall, but her heart reached the sky and beyond. She was more than my Aunty, she was a fan of my life. She taught me how to give a good honi (kiss) and hug, a gesture of which I have become infamously “known” for.
As I shared my memories of Aunty Ulu with Lilinoe my emotions could not be stifled. For a brief moment I realized my vulnerability, but I have learned over the course of these last two years that my vulnerability is safe with Lilinoe. We continued to cry and share in our memories, because Lilinoe too has her own precious individual memories with Aunty Ulu. In fact, the day Aunty Ulu passed away was the first day I rediscovered Lilinoe after almost 10 years of silence.
I was not only afforded the opportunity to say goodbye to Aunty Ulu, but also had written her a letter from my heart years before her passing. But, my soulful cry with Lilinoe on our living room couch is the type of communication I never want to lose.
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