The old man and the sea, and a little boy

I still dream about him.

I never knew my estranged grandfather—but his brother, Laureano Farinas, stepped in and took care of me.

As a little boy, I remember crawling into his pickup truck before the sun came out. He’d drive me along the empty streets past the Honolulu Harbor, past the old lighthouse that beckoned Aloha from its towering height.

Skies brightening from black to dark hues matching the Pacific ocean deep, he'd delicately carry me out of the pickup cab and stand me up. He’d straighten my shirt and pat me on the back.

In his work-worn hand, a teacher-turned-laborer, he clung to a crumpled brown paper bag of hot pan de sal rolls pinned against an aging avocado-green thermos of hot chocolate.

In the other hand: my small hand.

We walked to the boulder pier off Magic Island.

White caps rolled in from the brightening horizon, a point of flame rising.

Tradewind breezes tousled our hair.

And we watched.

The sun rose.

He became my real grandpa.

I still dream of him.

Are you proud of me, too, your grand-nephew—as you do the children of your children?

I dream of him.