⁹⁄₁₁

I had just moved to the Hilo side of the Big Is­land of Hawaii two months prior. 

My dad would get up re­al­ly ear­ly in the morn­ing and dri­ve all the way over to the Kona side to work as a fore­man for a con­struc­tion com­pa­ny. He heard the news on the ra­dio and his boss called and told him to turn around and go home. On his way home, he called my mom and told her to turn on the TV.

Be­cause there was a six hour time dif­fer­ence, it was al­ready over. All of it. We’d slept through the whole thing. I kept watch­ing the planes hit over and over. Class­es were can­celled that day.

Our house start­ed shak­ing and we could hear he­li­copters over­head. I ran out­side to see sev­er­al black hawks fly past. There was a de­stroy­er and an air­craft car­ri­er off the coast in the distance.

We went to Wal­mart be­cause we need­ed some shit and it was the only place that was open. Every­one was aim­less­ly walk­ing around like a zom­bie. No­body was say­ing any­thing. Just look­ing at one an­oth­er, then look­ing away, some­times with a sigh.

Since there was noth­ing else to do, we went to the beach that day. Bet­ter than sit­ting home watch­ing the same footage for hours.

I held onto my boo­gie board and let the waves rock me, and looked out at the horizon.
 
 

—emi­ly duchaine

Flom­mist Emi­ly Duchaine lives in the Pa­cif­ic North­west. She likes to drink mead, learn about sharks, and lis­ten to the Talk­ing Heads. She pre­tends to be a pro­fes­sion­al busi­ness­woman most days. Copy­right © 2019 Emi­ly Duchaine.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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