Out of the Fog

by Bliss Bonner

It’s always that striped carpet that comes back to me first.

A soft pink, a pale blue, dark green, and blood red.

But that’s not where it really starts.

It starts in the airport 

with open walls and lots of wood paneling,

an island itself set in the expanse of red dirt.

The taste of guava juice lingers in my mouth,

even after all these years,

guava juice from those plastic cups,

the foil lid peeled back.

Quickly my memory fades to that bus.

It was white, I think.

We always sat in the back.

The seats were covered in fuzzy fabric,

the kind they always use on shuttles,

the kind with the colorful patterns. 

The bus rolled through town, 

past Dole Park with its pineapple motifs and lizards,

and the Blue Ginger Café with its tuna sandwiches,

and down those narrow streets with their Cook pines

(there were so many of them)

standing tall. 

Sunlight always lingered toward the coast,

rarely daring to move inland.

Up here, the pines tightly grasped the mist,

held the clouds to the ground,

wore them like a shroud.

Toward the edge of town,

the buildings thinned out,

and the Cook pines formed lines

down the side of the road.

An old wooden fence,

like the ones back home,

parted path from pasture.

Horses hung their heads over the fence

as if in greeting.

The barn behind them was gray like the fog.

Ahead of us waited a wall of trees,

obscuring a tiny church within its shadowed reach,

white trim outlining its features.

The road curved,

bus tires rumbled on the bricks,

and there it was.

A low, wide, white building,

warm light in the windows.

The wood-shingled roof covered a wraparound porch.

A flag beckoned from across the driveway,

below the painted pineapple,

striped, again, in red, white, and blue,

the Union Jack in its corner.

Inside the building, it always smelled of wood, like a cabin.

It's getting harder to remember that smell.

Fireplaces glowed, 

tables awaited their tea, 

and a giant floral rug sat beneath our feet.

There were orchids everywhere,

orchids from the greenhouse outside.

My mom loved that greenhouse.

I think you could see it from the building.

It was out across the giant koi pond,

sat on a hillside.

We’d venture out under the trees,

the fig trees,

big trees laden with fruit.

It fell to the ground,

landed among the roots,

the roots like twisting walls.

We sat by the pond and fed figs to fish,

a kingfisher looking on.

Sometimes we’d take umbrellas.

The umbrellas were gray

(we still have one, I think).

Everything else seemed gray, too, 

in that pervasive persistent fog.

We’d take umbrellas whenever it rained

(it rained a lot)

and I could never see out from under them.

It was dark under the umbrellas,

darker under the trees,

and even darker come nightfall.

That was when we’d go back to the room.

The room had a window seat 

looking out at those trees,

a few beds with dense quilts,

and windows for breeze.

And then there was that striped carpet.

Pink, like the orchids

and green like the leaves,

sunshine gold,

and blue like deep seas.

Out of the fog,

it’s always that striped carpet that comes back to me first.