A recording of her voice, an old woman's voice
full of gravel and lead steeped through
the car radio. She spoke of gathering limu
visitors on ships, and dusty roads in Waianae.
In the distance you could almost hear
the dogs crying, the mullet wriggling in the fish bag

Nostalgic for a tutu I never knew,
I feel the ocean pulse inside me
waves rolling over, pushing me till I leap
from this car through the congested H-1
across the noise and ashen sky

emerge beneath the rains in Nu'uanu.
I move past the fresh water ponds
past the guava trees towards homes
with flimsy tin roofs where
my father, already late for school,
races up Papakolea with a kite made
of fishing twine. Framed in a small kitchen
window, tutu scrapes the meat from awa skin
for dinner tonight, wipes her hands on
old flour bags for dish cloths.
She is already small and wants to forget
I may be too late-

I have tomatoes and onion from the market tutu
my hand is out,my plate is empty
and some bones for the dogs to stop their crying
do you know my name?
I am listening for your stories to call me in
my hand is out, my plate is empty
for your stories to show me the way
tutu,do you know my name?

–Christy Passion