It was just another day. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in awhile. Not that a while of time means anything.
People forget things. I forget the details of my life, but not the people I shared it with. My memories come and go as they please. Each day brings back travels and restaurants and movies and love. I wish I was capable of curating my life.
It was August. I was 22. Today I remember a walk from years ago, leading to a spot on Kauai’s beach. The west side. I had just married Jay. Our wedding night was the start of our honeymoon. We stayed in a tall hotel near San Francisco airport. From our room at the Hyatt, I watched planes take off and land. Planes full of strangers, coming and going. The next morning I was one of those people.
The memories stayed. In the days that followed, Jay and I got married just 24 hours later. We flew to Oahu, changed planes, then flew to Hilo. My grandmother told me, go to Waimea. It looks like Ireland, she said.
My grandmother’s advice was strange, but she was right. I’d been to Ireland. Waimea had rolling green hills. Standing there, I felt peaceful and restless at the same time. The blue sea behind the hills made me think of old dreams. It didn’t look like the lower Big Island. There were cows, and small houses scattered in the grass. The place felt Celtic, and that comforted me, but it also reminded me how far I was from home. We drove our little rental car with the air conditioning too cold. The cold helped settle my nerves. When we stopped, the heat outside surprised me. It was nothing like Ireland, where the cold seeps into your bones.
A few days later, we flew to Kona and rented a white car. We drove to Kiahuna Plantation. We spent ten days in a small, clean ground-floor condo. The kitchen was to the left of the door. The living room was straight ahead. Past the loveseat, sliding glass doors looked out at the backs of the beachfront condos.
We didn’t have an ocean view. It didn’t matter. We walked around the green pond. It was small, but it reminded me of us. Not flashy, but quietly there. Some things seem unimportant at first, but they grow on you. We reached the sand and the ocean. Above us, the blue sky.
I was 22 then. Now I’m 46. I live alone. I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast, but I remember the greenish dish towels in that condo. Worn, but clean. The bedroom was a step to the left. The bathroom, a step to the right.
Jay broke his back on that trip. Not, as he liked to joke, during honeymoon shenanigans. He was just body surfing in shallow water and injured his lower back.
He said he’d heard a crack in his lower back.
On the flight home to San Francisco, I knew Jay was in terrible pain. He’d traveled all over the world, and turbulence never bothered him. But after we buckled up, I saw sweat on his neck. He was hurting. Even then, he smiled at the flight attendant.I sat next to him, helpless. My heart pounded. I tried to hide my fear with a smile, just like he did. That helplessness made me feel closer to him.
I don’t remember what I ate the night before. Maybe I didn’t eat at all. Reflecting on our honeymoon, when Jay was 33, I trusted him completely. He smiled even when things broke, including me. Trust is beautiful.
But always , there are more strange truths.
