to be closer to her, and now she’s gone.
5) Drink when the pastor claims deeds get us intoheaven. Deeds like tithing to the church. Deeds like tithing to his church. (Do not comment on how this is unbiblical. Do not comment on how he encouraged your grandmother to give until she had no money left for the upkeep of her house. Do not comment on the Louis Vuitton man-purse you’ve seen him carry into church.)
6) Sneak a swig when the pastor asks everyone to hold hands and confess the sins in their hearts. Get stuck with his doughy palm in yours. Do not respond when he gives your fingers an encouraging squeeze. Do not interrupt when he prays for your family’s wayward souls. Instead, look mournfully at the casket where your grandmother lies, and blame her for his presence.
7) After the sermon, approach the casket for the final viewing. Take a sip for each handmade paper lei and crayon drawing your little cousins have gently placed on top of your grandmother’s hands. Do not touch her cheeks, which are full and in the dew of a freshly painted blush. Do not kiss her forehead as your cousins might, nor adjust the sleeve of her Sunday muʻumuʻu, the one with the red hibiscus pattern, like your aunties do. You may, however, wrap a fine, gray-white tendril of hair around your finger and remember how you used to comb these same strands as she dozed in the hospital bed.
8) With your degree in English, your aunties expect you to deliver the most grammatically correct homage to your grandmother. Take this responsibility seriously. Your copyediting skills are all you have to offer your family.
After all, you were not born on Kauaʻi. You weren’t even born in Honolulu. No, you were raised a California girl, like your mother before you. She is haole. White. A foreigner. This makes you hapa haole. Half white. Half foreign.
Your eight-year-old cousin is dancing a hula. She hovers on the balls of her feet, her slender hips swaying like a palm. A neighbor’s boy strums “Amazing Grace” on a child-size ʻukulele.
You cannot hula or play the uke. You do not speak pidgin. You never add the right proportion of water to poi. But you can summarize your grandmother’s life in a five-paragraph essay, complete with thesis and topic sentences. And for this, you owe yourself a drink.
9) Approach the podium. Look out at your family tucked into neat rows. The mortuary has upholstered the pews in a warm beige color. The walls are sand-hued. You want to disappear into this uniformity. In your nervousness, forget to introduce yourself. During the eulogy, drink each time you say the words “family,” “faith,” or “the.” Drink for every family member who gets teary during your speech. Drink for reading through the introduction and body paragraphs without taking a breath.
Conclude with a description of your grandmother seated at her kitchen table, the Bible in her hand, her illness not yet evident. Notice your dad wiping his eyes and realize you are seeing him cry for the first time in three years, since his favorite dog passed away. Lose your placein the speech. Forget, momentarily, your grandmother’s name. Recall how squeezing her hand in yours felt like holding a fragile bird, and then feel your throat tighten, and tears threaten, and the steadiness of your voice wavering. Emma. Her name was Emma.
Feel angry that your family is making you deliver the eulogy. Rescind this. You are angry they are witnessing your grief. Drink.
10) Ask the family to share their memories of your grandmother. Rush back to your seat and search nervously for your father’s hand. Hold it. Hold it as you did when you were eight—desperately, with need and fear. Down the rest of your beer.
11) During the hour of sharing, take a drink each time a family member avoids using the word “Alzheimer’s.”
12) An eighth cousin four times removed comes to the podium and expresses surprise at having just learned your grandmother was ill. Respond by sneaking a
5) Drink when the pastor claims deeds get us intoheaven. Deeds like tithing to the church. Deeds like tithing to his church. (Do not comment on how this is unbiblical. Do not comment on how he encouraged your grandmother to give until she had no money left for the upkeep of her house. Do not comment on the Louis Vuitton man-purse you’ve seen him carry into church.)
6) Sneak a swig when the pastor asks everyone to hold hands and confess the sins in their hearts. Get stuck with his doughy palm in yours. Do not respond when he gives your fingers an encouraging squeeze. Do not interrupt when he prays for your family’s wayward souls. Instead, look mournfully at the casket where your grandmother lies, and blame her for his presence.
7) After the sermon, approach the casket for the final viewing. Take a sip for each handmade paper lei and crayon drawing your little cousins have gently placed on top of your grandmother’s hands. Do not touch her cheeks, which are full and in the dew of a freshly painted blush. Do not kiss her forehead as your cousins might, nor adjust the sleeve of her Sunday muʻumuʻu, the one with the red hibiscus pattern, like your aunties do. You may, however, wrap a fine, gray-white tendril of hair around your finger and remember how you used to comb these same strands as she dozed in the hospital bed.
8) With your degree in English, your aunties expect you to deliver the most grammatically correct homage to your grandmother. Take this responsibility seriously. Your copyediting skills are all you have to offer your family.
After all, you were not born on Kauaʻi. You weren’t even born in Honolulu. No, you were raised a California girl, like your mother before you. She is haole. White. A foreigner. This makes you hapa haole. Half white. Half foreign.
Your eight-year-old cousin is dancing a hula. She hovers on the balls of her feet, her slender hips swaying like a palm. A neighbor’s boy strums “Amazing Grace” on a child-size ʻukulele.
You cannot hula or play the uke. You do not speak pidgin. You never add the right proportion of water to poi. But you can summarize your grandmother’s life in a five-paragraph essay, complete with thesis and topic sentences. And for this, you owe yourself a drink.
9) Approach the podium. Look out at your family tucked into neat rows. The mortuary has upholstered the pews in a warm beige color. The walls are sand-hued. You want to disappear into this uniformity. In your nervousness, forget to introduce yourself. During the eulogy, drink each time you say the words “family,” “faith,” or “the.” Drink for every family member who gets teary during your speech. Drink for reading through the introduction and body paragraphs without taking a breath.
Conclude with a description of your grandmother seated at her kitchen table, the Bible in her hand, her illness not yet evident. Notice your dad wiping his eyes and realize you are seeing him cry for the first time in three years, since his favorite dog passed away. Lose your placein the speech. Forget, momentarily, your grandmother’s name. Recall how squeezing her hand in yours felt like holding a fragile bird, and then feel your throat tighten, and tears threaten, and the steadiness of your voice wavering. Emma. Her name was Emma.
Feel angry that your family is making you deliver the eulogy. Rescind this. You are angry they are witnessing your grief. Drink.
10) Ask the family to share their memories of your grandmother. Rush back to your seat and search nervously for your father’s hand. Hold it. Hold it as you did when you were eight—desperately, with need and fear. Down the rest of your beer.
11) During the hour of sharing, take a drink each time a family member avoids using the word “Alzheimer’s.”
12) An eighth cousin four times removed comes to the podium and expresses surprise at having just learned your grandmother was ill. Respond by sneaking a
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