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
Hawaii Pacific Review 