“I went when I was supposed to.”
Grandpa died peacefully six days later.
After the funeral, a package arrived from Hawaii.
Inside was a photograph from the courtyard dinner.
Grandpa sat in the center.
Around him stood four generations of Ruth’s family.
Someone had written all their names on the back.
There were twenty-seven.
At the bottom, Leilani had written:
Henry thought he saved one little girl.
He never understood how many of us were standing behind her.
I framed it.
It hangs beside the piece of hotel beam.
But there was one final thing.
Months later, while going through Grandpa’s belongings, I found his wallet.
Behind Grandma’s photograph was another picture.
One I had never seen.
It was a small copy of the old Hawaii photograph.
Ruth and Malia.
On the back, Grandpa had written something shortly after we returned from the trip.
His handwriting was barely legible.
