Somewhere Over The Rainbow

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"She was from Hawaii. Not the Hawaii of postcards and hotel luaus, but the real one—the one that lives in the bones of people who carry the islands with them wherever they go."

I didn't know, back then, how much she would shape me. I was just dating her son. He was one of the longer ones, the kind of relationship that weaves itself into your life so deeply that when it ends, you don't just lose a partner—you lose a whole world.

She was stern. Consistent. Set in her ways. The kind of woman who would answer the phone at 3 AM no matter what, and then call you the next day to scold you properly, once you were ready to hear it. She always knew when you were hungover. She'd make these concoctions—strange mixtures of things she had in the kitchen—and they always, always worked. The scolding would come later, when you could take it. She had an instinct for that. For when to push and when to pull.

She taught me things I still carry. How to soak chicken in pineapple juice and brown sugar until it melts on the tongue. The music of Israel Kamakawiwoʻole—not just the famous "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," but the other songs too, the ones that hold the weight of home. She taught us little words, little facts. Real Hawaii things. Not the fake shit they sell to tourists. She gave us pieces of her world because she trusted us with them.

I have a mom. I love her. But she was a different kind of mom—her own kind, the only kind she knew how to be. And that's okay.

This woman, though—she was something else. She was the type of mom I didn't know existed until I met her. The kind I perceived, maybe for the first time, that moms could be. Not better. Just... different. A window into another way of mothering. Steady in a way I hadn't experienced. Present in a way that quietly reset something in me.

I didn't realize it then. You never do, do you? You don't know you're being shaped until years later, when you're standing in your own kitchen making chicken the way she showed you, and it hits you like a wave: She showed me something I needed. She was one of the ones.

I found out she passed in October. It's March now. I heard through my ex's sister- her daughter. We haven't spoken in years, but a friend had sent me a picture from 14 years ago that I shared. .

And here's the thing about grief: it doesn't check your relationship status. It doesn't ask if you're still dating her son or if you have a "right" to feel it. It just shows up. Because she answered the phone. She scolded me and fed me and taught me. She was steady when I had no steadiness of my own.

So this is my small tribute. To the woman who was stern and kind and all-knowing. Who carried Hawaii in her voice and her hands. Who showed a girl what a mom could look like, without ever trying to be one to her.

🎵 LISTEN TO ISRAEL KAMAKAWIWOʻOLE 🎵

I'll play Israel today. I'll soak the chicken. I'll remember.
Mahalo. You mattered. You still do.

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