The clouds are a mass of bubbling white froth, in a milky sea that stretches on, with no end. They part only where the Volcano has pierced through, a giant, dark and imposing contrast to the clouds. Veins anchor the mountain to its base in tendrils that vanish beneath the froth. Slices of grey and white snow still cling to its shadows, up near the peak where the orbital silhouettes of observatories stand as the only indication of man's imprint (from my view anyway).
This morning I awoke, groggy and hesitant to confront looming school assignments, thinking about the day as it quietly unfurled. By the afternoon I had spent nearly $1000 of on emergency airfare to meet my grandmother on her deathbed, wondering how I might actually pay for it and if I would make it in time. I am writing from the sky, my ears adjusting to the cabin pressure of the plane that's bringing me to Honolulu.
Yesterday I was lying on a beach chair by a pool, slathered in coconut oil and trying to absorb the afternoon sun. Will snored beside me and our children shrieked happily from the heavily chlorinated water. My homework was propped beneath my eyes, my chin against my arms while I kicked my legs against the air, trying to focus on my reading, continuously distracted by the beauty of the day. I spent more time watching the clouds, I think, trying to decipher their direction and wondering if the imposing grey was coming or going.
Later that evening we were at the Palace, an old theater in town with antiqued paint in curls of gold and blue that travel up its interior columns, framing the stage. Deep green curtains hung in giant velvet folds before us, a backdrop to Taj Mahal and the Hula Band. They had us dancing until every worry we'd ever entertained, had melted to the floor, pooled, and dissolved beneath our stamping feet.
Meanwhile, my grandmother's body was surrendering itself to a state of permanent rest, her organs shutting down one by one, hastened by the Chemotherapy that tried, and failed, to buy her another year or so, of life.
(later)
I'm now in the Honolulu airport, waiting to see if I'll get on the redeye for Los Angeles. There is a woman sitting a distance away with a Chihuahua in her arms that looks just like my grandmother's little dog. Its little black ears are peaking out from its blanket as the woman who's holding it puts it up to her face and kisses its neck. It makes me think of my gran at home, in her armchair, with her two little yip-yip dogs, one curled up in her lap and the other spinning in circles on the floor near her feet.
Near this woman in the airport, there is a man playing his Ukulele and singing as he waits for his departing flight. His music comes to me, very calmly, while I consider this day. Every so often I wonder if the family that I'm coming to will collapse their grievances beneath their collective grief, but then I allow the concern to drift away and the music to fill my thoughts instead.
When I heard the news this morning, I wrote a long letter. My mother pulled it off her computer moments later and read aloud to my grandmother in her hospital room, far away. Heavy with morphine, she lifted her hands and pulled them across her chest as she slept through the words, maybe listening. I hope that by this time, tomorrow, I will be holding those hands.
