Plumeria Quotes

She wore a summer dress and it smelled of Hawaii- of the ocean, sun, teriburgers and plumeria. I squeezed her dress in my hand, wanting to be back there.

Things turn up in strange places all the time. For example library books, which possess a disconcerting ability to move from place to place, seemingly of their own volition.

The use of charm as a tool made her hackles rise. She respected a more direct approach. A battering ram approach. At least one knew where one stood with the battering ram, none of this butter-wouldn't-melt nonsense that could mean yes, no, or maybe.

It occurred to me in that moment that this was the perfect opportunity to incapacitate Clare. Unfortunately, I didn't have a weapon, and the only thing in the room, aside from the coffin, was a wreath made of exotic flowers on a wire stand beside me. "Jack loved his flowers." I bent over as if to smell the flowers, grabbed the wreath, spun, and smashed it over Clare's head. Flowers scattered across the carpet and the wreath came apart in my hands. Stunned, Clare just stared, her hair adorned with a sea of pretty pink plumeria. "Simi, what are you doing?" Dad stood in the doorway, his face a mask of horror. "This is the woman who kissed Jack with a gun to his chest. She also tried to kill me. She tried to make it so I would never see you again. I still might have to leave you because of her." My hands tightened around the wire frame so hard my knuckles turned white. Dad's brow creased in a frown. "Use your fist like you did when you were playfighting with your brothers." "Pathetic." Clare grabbed the remains of the flower wreath out of my hands and threw it on the floor. "If you really wanted to hurt me, you'd pick something more substantial." I threw a hard right, grazing her cheekbone when she ducked to the side. "That's it," Dad called out. "A little higher." "What's going on?" Mom walked into the room with Nani. "Why is Simi hitting that woman beside Jack's coffin? We're at a funeral. It's disrespectful." "This is the woman who tried to break them up," Dad said. "She's the reason for all that talk of leaving us. She tried to kill our Simi." "Hit her harder." Mom held her fists in the air. "Give her a one-two punch.

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without deeds do not to heaven go.

After more than thirty years of traveling to Oahu, I no longer gasp when I see the wafting palm trees out the plane window or feel quite as awed by the sight of Diamond Head, the volcanic mountain that sits like a massive green bulwark southeast of Waikiki. What I feel now is the exhilaration of familiarity. I am oriented to this place in ways I’d never have imagined for myself as a kid. Though I remain just a visitor, I do know this one island very well, just as I know this one man who introduced me to it, through our regular and committed returns. I feel like I know every bend in the highway that leads from the airport to the North Shore. I know where to go for excellent shave ice and Korean barbecue. I can recognize the scent of plumeria in the air and take delight in the underwater shadow of a manta ray flapping its way through shallow water. I’m well-acquainted with the quiet waters of Hanauma Bay, where we first showed our toddlers how to swim, and the windy sea cliffs at Lanai Lookout, where my husband goes to remember his beloved mother and grandmother, whose ashes he scattered there. A couple of years ago, to celebrate our wedding anniversary, Barack and I made a special trip to Honolulu, and he surprised me with a celebratory dinner out on the town. He’d rented a private space on the rooftop terrace of a hotel by the ocean and hired a small band to play.

Am Not Ready to Die Yet My death peers at the world through a plumeria tree The tree looks out over the neighbor’s house to the Pacific A blue water spirit commands this part of the earth mind Without question, it rules from the kingdom of secrets And tremendous fishes. I was once given to the water. My ashes will return there, But I am not ready to die yet— This morning I carry the desire to live, inside my thigh It pulses there: a banyan, a mynah bird, or a young impatient wind Until I am ready to fly again, over the pungent flowers Over the sawing and drilling workmen making a mess In the yard of the house next door— It is endless, this map of eternity. Beware the water monster that lives at the borders of doubt— He can swallow everything whole: all the delectable mangoes, dreams, and even the most faithful of planets— I was once given to the water. My ashes will return there, But I am not ready to die yet— And when it happens, as it certainly will, the lights Will go on in the city and the city will go on shining At the edge of the water—it is endless—this earthy mind— There will be flowers. There are always flowers, And a fine blessing rain will fall through the net of the clouds Bearing offerings to the stones, and to all who linger. It will be a day like any other. Someone will be hammering; someone will be frying fish. And at noon the workmen will go home to eat poi, pork, and rice.

the flower inside when he pops it open. It’s a plumeria. His eyes are smoldering when he reaches up and tucks it behind my left ear. I don’t miss the significance. In Hawaii, a flower is symbolic of romantic status. By placing the flower there, Landon is laying claim to me and letting the world know I’m his.

Left unsatisfied, the craving for sensations can become an actual hunger. A few years ago on a trip to Kauai, I noticed something funny. Five days in, I hadn’t had a single snack between meals. This was strange because, at home, I’m an inveterate grazer. There’s nearly always a packet of trail mix or a bowl of popcorn on my desk. But on this vacation, not a nibble. I realized that in Hawaii I was surrounded all day by the lush textures of the jungle, the whoosh of the ocean, and the smell of salt water. I had my feet in volcanic sand and a lei of plumeria flowers around my neck. I was satiated, head to toe. Sure enough, by 11:00 a.m. on that first day back in the office, I had my head in the snack cabinet, hunting for almonds. People are quick to blame habits, and to dismiss this as mindless eating, but I believe that ignores the root cause. In our humdrum environments, we live with a sensorial hunger, and without any other means to satisfy it, we feed it.