by Loukia Borrell
When my brother was getting cancer treatment, he’d drive to his townhouse after the appointments, get sick and spend the rest of the night on his sofa, curled up and shivering. It was always the same. Get injected, drive home, get sick, curl up and shiver. On these nights, I would go to Andy’s place, just to be nearby and get him whatever he needed. He always asked for blankets, so I would pile several over him, but nothing was enough to stop his shaking.
Filed under Nonfiction
by MaryAnne Hafen
My mountains bleed into my sky
on paper, and it looks wrong,
but it’s like real life;
virgo at summer’s end.
The world is too strange
to paint as it really is, too filled
with poorly pruned trees.
Filed under Poetry
by V. P. Loggins
You see her float like grief
from room to room, wearing
a dress of stars, all shining in
the light of the cocktail party
and the laughter of her guests. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Shayna Cristy-Mendez
My body feels it before my brain can ever make sense of it; words always fail in their attempt to capture the sense of abandonment that comes with losing a parent to drug addiction. That particular sense of abandonment also tends to be exaggerated when their death falls on your birthday. As it happens, death has a habit of being a real foot to the groin of celebration. Continue reading
Filed under Nonfiction, Young Writers Edition
by Michael Copperman
When I saw uncle Robert out back of my Aunty Ruby’s house after mochi-making a few days before the New Year, I was in my early twenties and he seemed unchanged from my memories of childhood. His weathered koa skin was carved with deep smile-lines, and he still was spry, always the first to leap to help to lift a table or shoulder a bag of rice. It was the first time I’d been back to the islands since my grandpa’s funeral—probably seven years before—and Robert set his veiny brown hand on my shoulder and squeezed a greeting, then held out two plastic bags of pomelos the size of basketballs. “For you!” He sat down next to me on the cinder block beneath the eaves. “I know you Lynny boy, you always liked da kine jabon. You always ate ‘em till they were gone. Bet you still like peel ‘em to eat ‘em all one time, eh? I show you how.” Continue reading
Filed under Nonfiction
Hawaii Pacific Review 