I've seen you before
We met for lunch downtown, took some time off work. A flight of stairs down from the sidewalk, a basement coffee/book shop with ubiquitous old-Seattle esprit. Easy conversation passes hours like minutes.
No, first we met on the sidewalk. I thought it was you because you were standing, waiting, looking at your phone, wearing a (why are they all?) oversized firefighter's jacket. A man in uniform.
To be honest, we met online. I was curious, checking out the site. Only one guy caught my interest; you emailed me first.
But we've met before. When I first saw your eyes, I recognized you from when we were infinite. I saw the deepest, clearest water and peace, a glimpse of life in love and summer sun.
Four dates, nine days on the calendar, each one a surprise. That coffee date, then mt biking, (you rented the best bike for me.) and skeet shooting, (oh, you loved the sight of me with a gun.) Visiting your dad to discuss books and gardens, then stopping to see a surprised brother. You knew the best restaurants tucked into small funky streets.
Today, a hike to a firehouse lookout at 10,000', scrambling boulders, a skinny precarious ladder to the top. The view is epic, cliffs fours sides, miniaturized trees way down, sun rays warming this spot on the wrap-around porch for lunch, tucked out of the wind. The sandwich you made just right, you had me at avocado. Thin air and a delicious little bottle of sake from a wooden box-cup made us giddy, trying to figure out that Japanese label, some cartoon figure of a victorious mean Samarai? So we named it Kick-Ass Sake, and I took a picture.
Then you asked me to marry you, and I said yes.
Here’s your black plastic nametag with white letters, slightly off-white and not-so-flat from a trip or two through a bachelor's dryer. I remove it from the bottom of the washer, lightly fingering the engraving, and ask "what's your middle name, these letters TK?"
From the kitchen you say, "my grandmother named me", with a private grin. "She might have been kinda drunk".
Walking behind me, your caramel-rich voice in my ear says with careful pronunciation, "TsuneoKawehiwehiokekuwahiwionouaioku'uhome", and I was just sent…
No, she wasn't drunk, she may have imbibed some but she knew exactly what she meant. Kupunawahine, Grandmother, holding her little hiapo mo'opunakāne, must have sensed your father was restless with rock fever. He would be moving away to the mainland, taking you away soon, so she says to you, "This land of water and rainforest trees of the Ko'olao mountains, Hawaii, is always beloved home".