A Lei for Yesterday
A Lei for Yesterday
The scent of fresh plumeria clings to the air like a secret. Kapiʻolani Park is alive with color. Lei Day drums beat softly in the distance, and children dart past my mat with sticky fingers and shaved ice smiles. It’s the kind of day my mother loved—one where tradition breathes and blossoms speak.
I thread golden ‘ilima blossoms onto a string, one by one. She always said lei-making is sacred. That the mana of the maker lives inside the lei.
If that’s true, then this lei holds a storm.
People called her “Aunty Lu” across the island, even when she wasn't related to them. She protected things—land, memory, culture. She wasn’t loud about it. She just... did. Until someone made sure she couldn’t anymore.
A house fire, they said. Faulty wiring. Nothing suspicious. But they didn't know her. And they didn't know about the file hidden in the back of the bookshelf. Or the man in the photo I found—smiling beside her, expensive sunglasses hiding everything his eyes might've said. Gerald Manua, according to the faded name scribbled on the back. They certainly didn't know about Kai either. The man who was my mother's right hand, who vanished like morning mist after her funeral, taking with him whatever secrets they'd shared.
"Yellow 'ilima," a voice says behind me, low, familiar.
My fingers freeze mid-thread, heart stuttering against my ribs. The plumeria blossom I was holding drops to the mat. I don't need to turn to know who stands there—the voice that's haunted my dreams for months.
He steps into view, slow and tentative, like he’s not sure I’ll let him stay. I see him from the corner of my eye first—tall, sunburnt, lean in the way of someone who moves fast and sleeps light. His hair's a little longer, jaw sharper with tiredness. But it's him. Kai Kealoha.
“You disappeared,” I say without looking up from the lei. “Not even a text after the funeral.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You worked for her. You owed her. You owed me.”
He kneels beside the mat. “I owed her more than you know.”
I finally look at him. “Then why did you run?”
“Because someone was watching. The night she died, your mom gave me a name. She said if anything happened to her, I needed to disappear and prove it wasn’t an accident.”
My hands stop moving.
“Gerald Manua,” he says, pulling out a folded photo. The same one I found, but his copy is marked up in pen—circles, arrows, dates. “Your mom was digging into illegal land transfers. Manua’s company has ties to quiet buyouts—pressuring old families to sign their land away. She had proof.”
I stare at the picture. “And you have it now?”
“Not all. But enough to get followed. Enough to stay gone.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“I wanted to. But if they knew you were close to me—”
“They already burned down my life, Kai.”
He lowers his voice. “You’re the last piece of her legacy. They don’t want you digging.”
Too late.
I finish the lei and tie it off. The string is tight, the knot steady.
“She taught me to finish what I start,” I say, rising. “Even when it hurts.”
We walk to the banyan tree she used to call her quiet place. It’s old and wide, the kind of tree that keeps secrets. I place the lei around a low branch and whisper, “This one’s for you, Mom.”
The breeze shifts. Music rises again in the distance. “May Day is Lei Day in Hawaiʻi…” floats through the air like a memory.
Kai stands beside me, silent.
“She didn’t leave me anything,” I say. “No note. No goodbye. Just this fight.”
“You were always going to find the truth,” he says. “She knew that.”
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
“I’m not asking you to.” He hands me a thumb drive. “I’m giving you everything I have. And then I’m gone again. Unless you need me.”
I tuck the drive into my bag without breaking eye contact.
“You still working alone?” I ask.
“Not by choice.”
I nod. “Then maybe it’s time that changes.”
He doesn’t answer. He just gives me a look that’s more sorrow than smile, and walks back into the crowd like a ghost.
I turn back to the tree. The lei sways gently in the wind, bright and golden in the shade.
Mom used to say grief doesn’t fade. It becomes part of the thread.
So I thread it. And I keep going.
Because I know now.
She didn’t just die.
She was silenced.
And I’m not done speaking for her.
The End
Author’s Note
Did you know May 1st is Lei Day in Hawai‘i? 🌸
It’s a beautiful local tradition that started in 1928 to honor the art of lei-making and the spirit of aloha. Every island has its own flower and color, and there’s music, dancing, and lei contests from keiki to kūpuna.
This story, A Lei for Yesterday, was inspired by that tradition—and by the strength of those who fight quietly to protect what they love. I hope it brought you a little beauty, heart, and suspense.
Mahalo for reading.
Love, Summer