The spirits of his parents never visited him, unlike Mariko and others, whom Koji hoped were his aumakua, spirit guardians, who came to him in times of need. He was reminded of his own weaknesses and past actions every time the spirits were with him, and though he knew it was important to move forward, the notion paralyzed him. Koji shook the thought away, struck a match, and reached up to light the thin stick of incense. He’d never been religious but found himself lighting a stick each evening since Mariko’s death. At first it was to honor her, but as time went by, Koji realized it was for his own selfish reasons.

He stepped back and watched as the dark smoke spiraled up, then closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet fragrance that filled the small house, letting the scent surround him. And for a short time, he felt Mariko there in the room with him, a warm reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Island Voices

Island Voices

RAZOR, 1901

My real name is Yoshio, which means righteousness, but I’ve been called Razor for as long as I can remember. I’ve always been fascinated by my father’s straight-edge razor scraping his cheek every morning, so they gave me the nickname. My father gave me that razor when I was thirteen and I carry it with me always. Three years have passed and I’m still working as a hoe hana, but what I want more than anything, yeah, is to be cutting cane like Koji. I can already feel the weight of the cane knife in my hand as I swing it against the tall stalks with a hard, solid thwack of the blade, watching them fall over like toy soldiers. Now that this year’s harvest is over, I hope to be finally cutting cane next season. I can feel it.