You were not my uncle and you had little to say to me,
Recent stranger in your long life, married to the niece
You adored, whose brother used to pedal his bike
To your gas station on Kuhio Avenue, where you kept
Your arms deep in grease and your smile quietly left
Upon tourists who asked you to pump gas, directions
To Ala Moana or where they could find good eats.
Your nephew, Gary, skin nearly as dark as the asphalt
In Waikiki, would keep his surf board in your office
For those times when you stopped whatever repairs
You were making for Keoni Chang or Mits Oka
And drive him to Queen’s Beach, your arms only
Slightly free of those dark smudges mechanicsWore as badges of their trade. Then after many years,
Your service station long replaced by a nameless condo,
You and your wife, childless and suddenly helpless
Had to go to a nursing home. Gary was the one who
Found a home in Palolo, cleaned your house, sold
It to pay for your care and visited you after your quiet
Smile had been lost to all but us. Those trips to Queen’s
Beach gave us directions for what now endures of you.
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