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This letter, although neither maudlin nor political in content, mourns the passing of our across-the-street neighbor, a wonderful woman who had taught at a Hawaiian immersion school.
One recent morning, around 5:30, it dawned on me that our gray trash bin had not been placed at the curb, a Friday ritual. Putting on slippers, I rolled it down the drive, observing the darkened house across the street.
There dwelt an opala man who had just lost his wife, the wonderful Hawaiian lady who laughed like happy chimes on a soft summer’s eve, just this week. Until recently, when we forgot the bin, she’d do that for us.
I wondered when our country would re-unite in our cooperative roles, in all seriousness, of opala providers and gatherers?
Phil Broms
Niu Valley
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