Sometimes known as death dealers, these little
people of old marched through our Moloka'i
living room one night, nearly thirty years ago;
My own father was visiting, as he rarely did,
forced into life in the moment after receiving
a prostate cancer diagnosis; hopped a flight
to the islands, Pearl Harbor reunion after the war,
had not visited since, not that one could call
wartime a vacation, but it is how so many
young men viewed Paradise, wretched paradox
that it was;
A longtime alcoholic, he thought he was having
delusional visions, waking up to footsteps,
opening groggy eyes to many small figures marching
through our tiny house; he did not cross them,
nor did he likely look any in the eye, both forbidden
or face the consequences; the gripping fear
of the unknown might have been this man's
one dread, eschewing any type of spirituality,
having been abused by priests as a young orphan;
It is said in Hawaiian folklore that a person should
not live in a house where doors line up, and this
small house in Japanese camp from pineapple
plantation days bore out that history, evident
as we scrubbed obscenities off walls before painting,
as if somehow a surface renewal might soften
the harshness of its history;
We never saw them, Chris and I, though we might have
appreciated the vision; instead, the disbeliever
among us witnessed what many relegate to myth,
and dad went on to live many years afterward, cancer
in remission; it was a legacy of abuse he could not escape,
and died, some might say, of a broken heart.
Moloka'i footsteps
This is a wonderful write, Bela. I, myself, believe in things others might not as we can never know all that there is to know about the tangible world and whatever there is…in some would say is the spiritual world. For, I have had my own experiences in the past. Do take good care.
I will bet you have had these experiences, Renee. Kind of like in Hamlet, “There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy [science].” Indeed! ☺️❤️
Yes, and there most certainly are!
😉
Bela, beautifully written on a subject that tears at my heart.
Miriam
Thank you, Miriam. 🙏💜
This poem sounds like a poignant story out of your life Bela… though I couldn’t understand some words but the emotions are reaching me. Broken hearts can never be healed, they can just be covered with pretense of forgiveness.
Thanks for your comment, Balroop, always welcome. The Huaka’i Po are the little people spoken of. Glad you could feel the poem, anyway! 🙏❤️
Wow. This is Something I won’t forget!
Yeah, it was pretty unforgettable. ☺️
Nothing can cure such a disease eating at one’s heart–but I wonder if they gave him the strength to keep going despite that. The world is full of wondrous and inexplicable things. (K)
It is! 🤗 Unfortunately, he passed the abuse onto his family. So much damage, but what so many do. Not many tools back in the day, but being a strong willed man, he might not have availed himself. Why he drank, I am sure. Taught me a lot about the extremes of human beings. 🙏 thanks, K.
Evidently my great grandfather was the same. My grandmother would not allow alcohol in her house.
Yup. He was like Jekyll and Hyde. Two very different sides to this man, who loved nature and sought knowledge his whole life. And yet. 😞
This was beautifully written, Bela. Loved how you incorporated a spiritual element to your words and reflection. Your dad seems to have lived a life of challenges but always had good intentions. He may have been seeing things (myth as you mentioned it), or he may be seeing things as they were. Either way, many things leave us in ponder and wonder and can be hard to explain – just like how it’s hard to explain our emotions and put it into words at times. Reading your comment to Memadtwo, abuse is never the answer and no one deserves abuse – and it can be hard for everyone involved to get out of such a sad situation and that can eventually take its toll on everyone.
Hope all is well, Bela. Much love 💖
Mabel, thank you for your always thoughtful and sensitive comments. I know everyone who is in your network appreciates them.
My dad was a complicated man. Now I would never make excuses for an abuser. But they too are human beings. He was born in 1921, and back then, there really weren’t the resources that there are today for damaged people. I have come to understand a lot since his death. He really helped me develop a deep compassion for the inner pain that so many people carry.
Some choices he made were not right in anyone’s book. But he did what so many do, which is to repeat a pattern of abuse unconsciously. Regret it, and bury themselves in alcohol and/or drugs.
If it weren’t for him, I would not be so acutely aware of the importance of my own words and actions. To understand that the work of being a parent is never done, for the more we do in clearing out our own inner demons, the less baggage our own kids are saddled with.
And so, in an ironic way, I do thank him. There were so many things that he did right. I get all of my love of nature from this man, my mother was a straight up city girl. Dad was the intellectual, the maverick, the explorer, and also yes, he had a soul sickness.
Thanks again, Mabel. Your insight is ever valuable. 🙏 Big love to you! 💜
You are right. Everyone is a human being, including your dad and biological family. But at the same time, you are right in that some choices are not right. It is encouraging to hear you learn from your dad’s past actions and have become self-aware of behaviour and your impact on others around you – and that is a quality to be admired 🙏💕
Thanks, my friend. 💕