Tutu

[anainohio]

you were the crankiest, most opinionated, spiteful old bag i ever knew. all of your favorite stories involved paying back some petty wrong or insult no matter how long it took. you were manipulative and neglectful and you drank too much. you always made fun of people behind their back. you forgot your own sons faces before you lost your sense of humor. you were too good for everyone. just last year you laughed at that poor old heartbroken fool who had a crush on you. you were a ruthless antiquer and garage sale hound. you told that poor mother at the baby sale that you had to fly to the mainland for chemo in the morning, just to get a good price before the sale opened. you pushed your best friend aside to snatch that tapa cloth madonna. when you were sixteen you dated college students and airforce cadets. you beat your brothers at every swimming race because you retired before they grew up. you gave nana a book, they are angles unaware, then sixty years later you gave it to me. you refused to give your landlord his house back, and when he made you leave you painted the bathroom pink with purple polkadots. your first words to your future husband were "hey sailor, if ya gotta bottle you can come to our party". you used to go to the full moon balls at the halekolani, and the officers in their dress whites and the ladies in evening gowns would dance in the moonlight. you swam out to the mokoluas in your nightgown to get a glass ball. you worked as a secretary for dole pineapple and bought beachfront lanikai. you raised two silly, outgoing, too tall boys. you beat my dad with a coathanger when you found the eggplant and spinache he'd hidden in the pie safe. your christmas deco was a tourist attraction in and of itself. you never approved of the christmas trees we had in utah or the way we arranged your nativity sets. you always bought me cracklin' oat bran. you never went swiming with me, not once. you always treated us to fancy meals, but your credit card had always expired years ago. you always pointed out when men were staring at the two easterling beauties. you told me to marry for money and love whoever i want. you bought me mixed drinks when i was fourteen. you painted the town red until ten'o'clock, wheelchair or no. you refused to take part in the "death trap" fitness for life classes. you told those old bags, "no, i don't always drink wine. sometimes i drink whiskey or scotch or bourbon." you would have sold the good porcelain at the garage sale because you knew it was too good for your slob children. the last time we talked you told me you did it all and you did it with class so you had no regrets. i only hope i can say the same when my time comes.
aloha nui loa oe