On my birthday, I sometimes stroll through graveyards to celebrate. In Kohala’s countryside the cemetery plots tell stories on tombstones. Peculiar timelines, diverse names, and life roles are etched into cement or marble. Relying on fiction to respect and imitate reality, one sample name reads Pedro Alfonso, son, born September 17, 1982, and died May 22, 1988. He was six years and ten months old when we lost him. Another plot exhibits the bare minimum place marker with a one-foot picture frame, a printed piece of paper inside, stating the person’s basic info, which the adjacent church has stabbed in the grass. I suppose the family got busy.

In our ohana (family), many an ordinary aloha Friday translates into comfort food and a goofy family movie. On island one company called Maui Brewing makes a tasty root beer, syrupy sweet in the right ratio, the ideal indulgence beverage to complement several slices of pepperoni pizza baked at home, fresh from the grocery store freezer and its box. On this early evening, I also serve us extra-large bowls of Rocky Road ice cream to pull the drawstring closed on my emotions, eating to soothe them. Makes sense that the drawstring ties less easy around my waist, though.