Lawe liilii ka make a ka Hawaii, lawe nui ka make a ka haole. 
Death brought by Hawaiians takes a few; death brought by haoles takes many.     
                                                                                                                

February 15, 1878

Mrs. Richardson knocked on the door yesterday with a package of uala, fresh poi, and a big bowl of pipi stew to make sure that I am still eating. She has brought me food every day since Uncle Puana's funeral last week, and I haven't had the heart to tell her it may be all for naught in just a few short years or months. 

In her last puolo, she buried this journal under the uala. It was wrapped in paper that was blue with flecks of white, like the deep ocean off Kahikinui mirroring the stars.  I was careful so as not to tear it even slightly, it is so precious.  

She suggested I could use this journal to record my thoughts and practice my English. I believe that these pages will serve me well in those regards,and also as a friend of sorts.


March 5, 1878

I spent the latter part of this afternoon among the plants. I was surprised to find several of them still there, growing wild among the grass. I regret neglecting them for this long. I promised Mama that I would care for them.

Even the popolo is still there in the shade of the immense kukui tree, whose little white flowers have just started opening like stars amid the waves of light and dark green that are its leaves.  They reminded me of the story Papa would tell about how Mama strung them into a lei, which she wore on her head on their wedding day, and he imagined she looked like an anela with a thin halo of hoku.


March 19, 1878

This morning, I felt more than most days that I am the only one left in this hale, the only one who still sees and remembers na pua po from moeuhane. Na kupuna tell me every night about how they watch the spirits leave their bodies, yet still cling to this earth. They are all choosing to stay and wrap their children in their mana like kapa moe, rather then make the journey to Lahaina to leap into the ocean. They are everywhere. And still here with us.

They want us to keep living. Ola i ka ohulu no na kupuna, no na mamo. 

I remember this long after the sun crowns Haleakala and slashes its path through ka po. I hold this knowledge within me, doubting my body's strength to carry it, even though it feeds me through the day. 


April 7, 1878

I thought I heard Mama's voice today in the wind, and I went to visit the graves. Every single one was showered with pink melia from the overhanging trees, making my own lei of ki and hala seem so small in comparison. Just as I finished talking to Mama, moani ke ala o na pua, embracing me in its folds. Below, the valley shrouded itself in thin, low-lying clouds, and I remembered that this moment had revealed itself to me in moeuhane when I was just a child.

I have to keep telling myself that these days are just small parts of this living and dying time. Small flecks of light, stars on the ocean, to which we all must eventually return.  For some reason, this gives me some solace.

And now, there is purpose in writing, and an urge upwelling in me to write everything down, as if writing could slow time or even bring it back somehow. For, as na kupuna remind me: I ka olelo no ke ola, i ka olelo no ka make. In words, ae, there is death--but there is also life.

It can be horrible
what a house can hold
onto, even long after
the living have moved
on. You see it in the pine
board knots that look
like eyes back toward
the koa and eucalyptus,
beyond the broken
barbed-wire fence
where the fog sits, waiting.

They've seen that a house
can be rebuilt with new
wood and some varnish,
the mold bleached over,
all the glass cleared
of webs and the remnants
of the last upcountry storm--

but it needs much more
to cleanse itself of history.