Dad’s faded beach photograph had spent years in our junk drawer, though his thumb had worn one group of people nearly smooth. Two weeks after his death, a big package arrived from Honolulu with no return address. Mom saw the label, grabbed my wrist, and begged me to throw it away without opening it.
I found Dad at the kitchen table with the photograph again.
He kept it in the bottom drawer beside old batteries, takeout menus, and pens that barely worked.
It showed a beach in Hawaii.
The colors had faded until the ocean looked gray. Palm trees leaned into one corner, while several tiny figures stood near a cooler on the left side.
Dad slowly turned the picture over in his hands.
“What’s it like there?” I asked.
He looked up.
“The rain is warm. You can smell the ocean before you see it.”
Mom stood at the counter buttering toast.
Her knife froze halfway across the bread.
Dad noticed.
“So,” he said, setting the photograph down, “how’s work?”
That was Hawaii in our family.
One moment it existed.
The next, someone changed the subject.
Dad had been born there and left at twenty. He moved to Oregon for work, met Mom, married her, and never returned.
