Sun Oct 20 2024

In the morning I spray bleach across the counter and walk the dogs. It’s 5:30 AM on a Sunday, this is kupuna hour. I empty cans of beer and seltzers. I dust off incense and ashes from ledges and pick up pieces of fluff from the floor. Everything is scuffed and sticky.

Brother is asleep on the couch. Next to the chips that Brother brought. Curry is dripping everywhere. Brother left with Kenzie.

In the morning there are only the afters and the should-haves. We will likely forget the trip to Tonga or Samoa, wherever it was we said we would go. We have been planning for Volcano and camping; but even these will be beyond bandwidth.

Brother left his vape. Brother clogged the sink, again. Brother is with his patient. The sweet smell of chemical godliness heals the hangover.

In the morning I pick up the pieces of my brothers like ʻōpala. The spots where we danced and belly laughed and barfed from the booze. And I hold it to hoʻi them when we ready, they won’t mind. All these things we do to hide from each other that we are hurting.