Hula

by Jasmin Iolani Hakes

Laka spiraled downward into the second-guessing maternal doubt that, once started, had not stopped.

With knowledge comes the burden of responsibility. We were never revolutionaries. Only accidental activists. Once you know something, you can’t unknow it. Once you see the crime, closing your eyes to it makes it yours.

Same way you answer a question you don’t want to answer. Say too much, talk in circles, point in multiple directions, turn right and then left and then spin them around until they’re so dizzy they drop to the ground and forget what they were asking. Pay attention.

There’s no running away on an island. Soon enough, you end up where you started.

DHHL and OHA said corporate leases increased their revenues so they could make more land ready, to bring water and roads and electricity to South Point.

She felt an old anger rising. How much Laka had done for the woman-child seething in front of her, how much she’d loved and sacrificed for her, all the times she’d fought for her and defended her. Her cheeks flushed with the heat of her rage.

Mother. The most haunted, haunting word. A blade sharp enough to slice out your heart.

Mamalahoa Highway to Punalu`u. In Na`alehu she spotted the tiny sign that she didn’t realize she’d been heading toward until she saw it. She followed the sign off the thoroughfare and bumped down a rough lava road until she saw it. South Point. The southernmost tip of the United States.