Even he may not have realized it—
for none of us quite know
the time of our demise—
but he did not live much longer.
He sits, a placid, contented look
on an ageless face, lush white hair
brushed back from those chiseled
Polynesian cheekbones.
I was glad to see him
when we returned to this island
after four years away.
He owned and occupied
a tiny gallery here in our community
for decades.
One could enter
and become immediately overwhelmed
at the sheer volume of curios
in residence.
I knew these objects were for sale,
but hesitated, every time,
in taking anything away.
They all seemed to find their place
amongst one another.
And perhaps nowhere else.
Hooks carved from genuine ivory.
Stone.
Creations in cloth, tapa.
Maybe you can still find these things
somewhere in Hilo,
but I do not know
of such a place.
It was magical.
And such magic,
at least on earth,
never quite seems to last.