She crossed Hui Iwa in front of us, a short woman in baggy shorts and slippers. She held some large leaves and smaller flowers in her hands and looked through chain link at the culvert, diamonds of light shining off the water. As Lilith and I approached, she asked me what the building on the other side of the culvert is. I said it belonged to a spiritual group that holds meetings there, though none in my recent memory. She had light brown hair that fell to her shoulders, another flower behind her ear. A young woman, some scabs beside her mouth. "I've seen you somewhere before!" she said to me. She stopped our conversation a couple of times to say she'd located the memory of me, but lost it again. "Did you go to UH?" I asked. "No, BYU. Took a Samoan class at UH, though."
She asked where I live, and I gestured "up there." "That's what they say in Kaneohe; up the road," she responded. "I am . . . " Her mouth formed a word, but didn't sound it. As I leaned my left ear toward her, I realized that the soundless word was "homeless." As if shame. "Can you get into a shelter?" I asked. "None of the shelters will take me," she said; "they'll take everyone else in Kahalu`u, but not me." I said I was sorry. "You should be grateful," she said.
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