Page 9 of Poseidon's Island Flower

Koma cringed, looking behind his back. “Don’t call me that in front of the guys. They might start calling me that,” he whispered.

“Already heard it!” his chaperone yelled from the steps of the plane.

I shook my head, the corners of my mouth curving up into a wide smile. I was twenty-six years old, a hotel maid, a mixed child that didn’t fit in with her mother’s white skin and her father’s native Hawaiian background.

Koma and Candice thought it would be so easy to find someone who would want to be with me, but boy were they wrong.

Koma had good genes. He was an adopted, full-blooded Hawaiian. The cream of the crop both on the islands and on the mainland. The University got their diversity piece for the team while I was mixed race and didn’t fit in with father’s side of the family who are all carry full Hawaiian blood.

I did not get the best of both worlds. They wanted dad to marry a Hawaiian native.

“You call me when you arrive, won’t you?” I asked.

Koma nodded, giving me another hug. This time he stepped away, waving to me as he climbed the stairs of the plane sitting on the tarmac. I backed away slowly, not ready for the plane to disappear, not ready for the last relative to leave me on the island. Because once Koma got on that plane, the hole in my heart was going to be empty once again.

“Aloha!” Koma yelled through the noise of the aircraft.

I put on a brave face, waving and holding on to the lei. “Aloha, Koma!” I called.

I waved until the plane was out of sight, and then I continued to wave. I wasn’t ready to let him go and for some dumb reason, ifI stopped waving, that would signal that he was really gone.

But eventually, I stopped waving because my alarm on my watch buzzed, alerting me to go to work. Working with Candice always lifted my spirits. She was a hellion on two feet, always coming up with something funny and snarky to say.

Candice made the day pass quickly with her funny jokes and her complaints about the rooms she cleaned that day. Including The room with the funny post-its, the warnings not to touch anything and that heavenly pillow, my mind steered clear of sad thoughts about Koma.

Except now the day was over, and it was time for me to get into a new routine.

After work, I drove my dinky little car home. I couldn’t tell you which road I took, what cars I passed, or if the sun was shining. I arrived at the single gravel parking spot where I always parked and pushed the car door open with a swift movement of my shoulder.

Stupid thing always got stuck.

My mind was empty yet full at the same time. I couldn’t decipher the emotions and feelings, trying to unravel in my body. I had no time to cry, no time to come to terms with my parents’ death, nor prepare myself for Koma moving away from the island for collage.

I was a planner, a doer, and the responsible one for years. There was only Koma, and I was the eighteen-year-old turned parent in the blink of an eye. I did what I had to do to take care of both of us.

Our home was a humble two bedroom, one bath house. The kitchen and living room doubled as the same space. A tiny two-seater couch with trays lined up in the corner served as our table since there wasn’t much room for even a dining room table. It wasn’t much, but the home was paid off, and that was all that mattered.

There was a roof over our heads. It was a place to keep us dry and warm—a safe place from the outside world.

Now it was all quiet.

The small home was nestled back in the palms, the bushes, and nature. They protected our home from the occasional too-high winds and shaded it, keeping it cool despite the non-existent air conditioner.

I stepped out onto the patio and the large stones of our walkway. At the end of each day, I took the time to sweep the sand away—a domestic chore I found myself doing because mom used to do it. We grew up with few material things, but it was a home full of love.

I took off my shoes, walking through the trees that were so much shorter when Koma was ten. They towered over him then, and now it seemed he could reach the tops of the branches.

The stone path turned into a deep, dark lava stone. It rippled, looking like black, dried tar as it trailed further over the sand and stretched into the ocean. It reached out into the ocean so far; you could see the waves breaking far too soon where the lava pier ended.

I walked for as long as I could without feeling the ocean waves spraying over the barrier and looked down at the neatly made lei my mom taught me how to make.

It was wilted now from sitting in the blistering sun in my car.

When our parents died, I didn't have time to mourn. I sprang into action, taking care of Koma, and I didn’t have time to think about how much I would miss them.

At night, I missed them gathering around the living room. I missed dad coming in from a day of demanding work and kissing mom by the sink.

Koma was so lost when they left us, I didn’t have time to be sad.

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