Standing in the cold river this morning, I catch myself listening for the voices of the ancestors on the wind that is blowing up the cliff face from the valley below. My legs are nearly numb from the water rushing past them. I have been standing here since before first light, waiting for the sun to rise and reach just the right angle for me to complete the task that has brought me here on the last day that I will ever spend in Hawaii.
I suppose I ought to introduce myself. My name is Anela Makani or literally translated Angel Wind. Most everyone just calls me Angel. I am 15 years old, but after the last two weeks I have lived through, I feel eons older than my years would determine. I suppose that most 15-year-old boys would hate to be named Angel Wind, but I dont mind, really. My Mama said she named me such because when I was born I looked back at her with an old soul, and that anyone with such a wise gaze must hear the voices of the ancestors on the wind.
Mama was like that, when she and I were young. She was always telling stories, and singing songs to me, but the one thing I remember most is that Mama was an artist, a painter. She loved color, smoky and earthy or strong and bright. She usually had paint flecks on her hands, because they never seemed to wash off very well.
I would stand next to her at my own little easel and paint pictures for her while she painted her own. I would always paint rainbows for Mama. No matter what else was in the picture, I would have to include a rainbow, because I knew that Mama loved color so much. I would eagerly tear off the page from my pad before the paint even dried and run to her holding it up and exclaiming Look, Mama, I made you a rainbow! She would laugh and clap her hands and hang it on the wall next to her own paintings, as if I had as much talent as she had.
We used to take walks up here, to listen to the Spirit Wind. She would always ask me what I heard, and I was never sure I heard anything. Sometimes I would make up things to tell her anyway, but she knew I was fibbing.
My dad lives in California, where he and my Mama met when she went to college on the mainland. He always called me once a month, and wrote me letters, and he would visit, but I was always just as content for it to be Mama and me. As I got older, though, I guess Mama thought I needed a father figure, or maybe she just needed someone adult to be with. She married David when I was 9 years old.
I never really cared much for David, but I was nice to him, because Mama was happy. Before too long, though, David would come home from work in bad moods, and say sharp things to Mama and me, and make her cry. She would always explain this as he had a hard day, or was working too hard. By the time the sharp words became slaps or even fists to the face and head, she had stopped making excuses, and just took his abuse in silence. I tried to get her to call the police, or at least leave David, but she never did. Finally I gave up asking, and instead would stay out all day with my friends, coming home in time to eat and go to my room to do homework. I am not sure if I was hiding from Mama or David, or maybe both of them.
Mama never painted anymore. Neither did she tells stories or sing, and in fact, standing here in this cold river, I cannot recall the last time I even saw Mama smile. Remembering Mamas face brings a pain to my chest, but no tears. I have shed so many tears these last two weeks I dont believe I have any left.
It was a Saturday, I remember, because Stevie, my best friend since fourth grade, and I had been at the beach all day. I got home just after dark, and as I walked up to the house, I noticed there was no sound of the T.V., and no sounds of fighting, and no lights burned in the windows. It didnt feel right, and the voices in my head told me not to go in, but I went in anyway. The house was a mess. Lamps were thrown down and broken, the phone was ripped off the wall, and the TV had been knocked over. I assumed it was David who had done this, that was his style.
I called out, but got no answer and I figured I would look into Mamas room, to see if she were lying down. I never made it to her door, and nearly tripped over her lying in the dark hallway. I flipped the wall switch to see her lying on her side, her arm flung out across the hall and her eyes closed. I knew David had beaten her pretty badly this time, because her face was covered in bruises, and blood. I reached down to touch her hand, and it was cool, but still a little warm. I checked for a pulse, and found none, so I sat there, holding Mamas hand in the hallway, trying to breathe.
I remember thinking how I hadnt held Mamas hand in so long that it didnt even look like her hand to me. This hand was colorless, no paint splotches, and the skin was gray and a bit wrinkly. This was the hand of some old woman, I thought, and tried to convince myself that maybe this wasnt Mama after all, but some poor old lady who wandered into our house to die.
I must have gotten up at some point, and gone to the neighbors to call the police, but I dont recall doing so. What I do recall is the night my Dad arrived at Stevies, where I had been staying. When he walked in the door, I completely lost it, and I bawled like a baby, right there in front of Stevie and his family. I guess it took seeing Dad to realize how serious the whole situation was I was never going to see Mama again, and I was going to have to leave everything I had ever known
Dad had Mama cremated. He said that way we could take her ashes with us, and bury her in some cemetery in San Diego, so I could visit her grave. I, however, had other plans, and they are the reason I am standing here, freezing my legs off in the river this morning.
Thankfully, the tourists are sleeping in, and so is Dad. I am sure I would never be getting away with this if he knew where I had gone. I snuck out early, pouring Mamas ashes into a large zip lock bag, so I didnt have to balance a big urn on the handlebars of my bike. So, here I stand, waiting still, for the sun to rise just a bit higher I want it to be perfect.
I did not come here this morning to break the law, nor was it my intention to litter or mess up the ecosystem. No, I came here this morning to fulfil a prophesy spoken by a wise old soul through the voice of a 5-year-old boy so long ago.
As I carefully pour Mamas ashes into the river, I watch as they drift downstream, some of them sinking immediately, and some floating on top of the water only going under when they go over the cliffs edge. I hurry to the shore to peer over the edge of the precipice and look below to where the water crashes into the bottom of the pool. A fine mist rises and the sun shines on it, casting a multi-colored arc up the cliff face, as if the light refraction were trying to go back upstream.
I can feel the sun and the breeze on my face, and I imagine I hear the voices of those long gone ancestors, and louder than them all, I hear Mama singing. I notice that I do, indeed, have tears left, for I can feel them coursing down my face. But I have to smile, just a little bit, as I speak into that gentle wind, Look, Mama, I made you a rainbow.
I suppose I ought to introduce myself. My name is Anela Makani or literally translated Angel Wind. Most everyone just calls me Angel. I am 15 years old, but after the last two weeks I have lived through, I feel eons older than my years would determine. I suppose that most 15-year-old boys would hate to be named Angel Wind, but I dont mind, really. My Mama said she named me such because when I was born I looked back at her with an old soul, and that anyone with such a wise gaze must hear the voices of the ancestors on the wind.
Mama was like that, when she and I were young. She was always telling stories, and singing songs to me, but the one thing I remember most is that Mama was an artist, a painter. She loved color, smoky and earthy or strong and bright. She usually had paint flecks on her hands, because they never seemed to wash off very well.
I would stand next to her at my own little easel and paint pictures for her while she painted her own. I would always paint rainbows for Mama. No matter what else was in the picture, I would have to include a rainbow, because I knew that Mama loved color so much. I would eagerly tear off the page from my pad before the paint even dried and run to her holding it up and exclaiming Look, Mama, I made you a rainbow! She would laugh and clap her hands and hang it on the wall next to her own paintings, as if I had as much talent as she had.
We used to take walks up here, to listen to the Spirit Wind. She would always ask me what I heard, and I was never sure I heard anything. Sometimes I would make up things to tell her anyway, but she knew I was fibbing.
My dad lives in California, where he and my Mama met when she went to college on the mainland. He always called me once a month, and wrote me letters, and he would visit, but I was always just as content for it to be Mama and me. As I got older, though, I guess Mama thought I needed a father figure, or maybe she just needed someone adult to be with. She married David when I was 9 years old.
I never really cared much for David, but I was nice to him, because Mama was happy. Before too long, though, David would come home from work in bad moods, and say sharp things to Mama and me, and make her cry. She would always explain this as he had a hard day, or was working too hard. By the time the sharp words became slaps or even fists to the face and head, she had stopped making excuses, and just took his abuse in silence. I tried to get her to call the police, or at least leave David, but she never did. Finally I gave up asking, and instead would stay out all day with my friends, coming home in time to eat and go to my room to do homework. I am not sure if I was hiding from Mama or David, or maybe both of them.
Mama never painted anymore. Neither did she tells stories or sing, and in fact, standing here in this cold river, I cannot recall the last time I even saw Mama smile. Remembering Mamas face brings a pain to my chest, but no tears. I have shed so many tears these last two weeks I dont believe I have any left.
It was a Saturday, I remember, because Stevie, my best friend since fourth grade, and I had been at the beach all day. I got home just after dark, and as I walked up to the house, I noticed there was no sound of the T.V., and no sounds of fighting, and no lights burned in the windows. It didnt feel right, and the voices in my head told me not to go in, but I went in anyway. The house was a mess. Lamps were thrown down and broken, the phone was ripped off the wall, and the TV had been knocked over. I assumed it was David who had done this, that was his style.
I called out, but got no answer and I figured I would look into Mamas room, to see if she were lying down. I never made it to her door, and nearly tripped over her lying in the dark hallway. I flipped the wall switch to see her lying on her side, her arm flung out across the hall and her eyes closed. I knew David had beaten her pretty badly this time, because her face was covered in bruises, and blood. I reached down to touch her hand, and it was cool, but still a little warm. I checked for a pulse, and found none, so I sat there, holding Mamas hand in the hallway, trying to breathe.
I remember thinking how I hadnt held Mamas hand in so long that it didnt even look like her hand to me. This hand was colorless, no paint splotches, and the skin was gray and a bit wrinkly. This was the hand of some old woman, I thought, and tried to convince myself that maybe this wasnt Mama after all, but some poor old lady who wandered into our house to die.
I must have gotten up at some point, and gone to the neighbors to call the police, but I dont recall doing so. What I do recall is the night my Dad arrived at Stevies, where I had been staying. When he walked in the door, I completely lost it, and I bawled like a baby, right there in front of Stevie and his family. I guess it took seeing Dad to realize how serious the whole situation was I was never going to see Mama again, and I was going to have to leave everything I had ever known
Dad had Mama cremated. He said that way we could take her ashes with us, and bury her in some cemetery in San Diego, so I could visit her grave. I, however, had other plans, and they are the reason I am standing here, freezing my legs off in the river this morning.
Thankfully, the tourists are sleeping in, and so is Dad. I am sure I would never be getting away with this if he knew where I had gone. I snuck out early, pouring Mamas ashes into a large zip lock bag, so I didnt have to balance a big urn on the handlebars of my bike. So, here I stand, waiting still, for the sun to rise just a bit higher I want it to be perfect.
I did not come here this morning to break the law, nor was it my intention to litter or mess up the ecosystem. No, I came here this morning to fulfil a prophesy spoken by a wise old soul through the voice of a 5-year-old boy so long ago.
As I carefully pour Mamas ashes into the river, I watch as they drift downstream, some of them sinking immediately, and some floating on top of the water only going under when they go over the cliffs edge. I hurry to the shore to peer over the edge of the precipice and look below to where the water crashes into the bottom of the pool. A fine mist rises and the sun shines on it, casting a multi-colored arc up the cliff face, as if the light refraction were trying to go back upstream.
I can feel the sun and the breeze on my face, and I imagine I hear the voices of those long gone ancestors, and louder than them all, I hear Mama singing. I notice that I do, indeed, have tears left, for I can feel them coursing down my face. But I have to smile, just a little bit, as I speak into that gentle wind, Look, Mama, I made you a rainbow.
