Uncle Noah Joins Them for a Beer

Chris and I are in our office, late, drinking, talking about writing and our students. Uncle taps his rake on the window, joins us.
Sitting in the soft glow of two computer screens, we read our stories, then Uncle tells his. “I never go jail,” he finishes, “’Cause my ‘aumakua wen’ catch me that day and tell: ‘I stay watching you, boy.’”
He shows us his scar: the shark’s crescent bite mark on his thigh. The dim computer light casts his face half in shadow, like the faces of his ancestors as they sat around their night fires, talking story.