Growing, flowing, hanging pots of green, and my Grandma is the medicine woman. Pots and pots everywhere with a dictionary of names. Something moss and something flower. “Pua” is the Hawaiian word for flower, my grandma tells me as she hula dances around the room and my Grandpa sings along strumming his guitar. My grandma grows it. My grandma makes it. My grandma sows it. Imagine being so self-sufficient. Imagine a time when you had to be. She gets her eggs from her friend up the street who has chickens. They wash their dishes in the sink. And they pick vegetables from the ground. When did we get too proud to bend over and pick up the food we eat? Now it’s a job for those of a lesser social standing. Is two generations really that far apart?
My grandparents are the greatest. They are not too old to dance or too embarrassed to sing. Not too tired to stay up and talk. They love to laugh but mostly they just make me laugh.
Things that remind me of my Grandparents:
My Grandpa's huge Bonzai tree in the front yard.
Plumerias.
Hanging laundry and beach towels.
This Tree.
BBQ and pancit.
Asian slippers lined up by the front door.
Miniture BBQs. Everything is miniature.
