We had booked a trip last year, in the months when my mother was still living independently, a trip that she paid for. This trip, our first to Hawai’i for me, my partner, and our kid, was a gift she was able to give us after she received a lump sum that was due to her, both modest and unexpected. I say all this up front because in my life, I’ve often wondered how it is that people have the money for this kind of travel when it’s not related to work.

I barely read and I only wrote my usual two journal pages each morning. I bobbed in the ocean. Acclimated to the time change. Ate a lot of great food. Managed to not get sunburnt. Hot tubbed. Had a vodka drink every night but the last. Stared at the ocean. Slept deeply.

The moment we were in the airport going home (no ICE in either Honolulu or LAX, no long lines, downright sleepy) my brain started trying to figure out: how do I return to Hawai’i as soon as possible/how can I move to Hawai’i. Yes, I was seduced by resort life in Hawai’i, and yes, I have some things here at home that I wish I could withdraw from completely. A week with less pain was followed by a week of intense pain while on vacation, pain that is bleeding into my return to work and other obligations. My mother’s house/my childhood home is being listed for sale this week. My mother’s condition feels precarious, as does my partner’s mother’s. Though I could use more work, I’m grateful to not have more at the moment because I feel like I can’t handle much more beyond what’s in front of me. It’s hard to even think deeply about writing or finishing an essay or transcribing when all these things are taking up my attention.

But for a few days, I let go of all this, pushed my feet into the sand, walked far out into the ocean, saw fish big and small, and listened to the waves.

I spoke with host Ronit Plank of the Let’s Talk Memoir podcast recently.

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