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Asaviour, a visionary, and a youth with cancer walks into a bar, except I don’t think anyone wants to be saved or pitied or be the punchline in an environmental, apocalyptic fishbowl. The other day, I caught myself reaching for my phone. I’d forgotten. It had been less than a week. Who did I think I was? Was I ready to talk about this? I don’t even play a role in the above opening line.

I grapple with the concept of planning forward, sussing out faceless landmarks. But when dealing with endings, one can’t simply start over. On the island of O’ahu where I live, patches of red dirt attempt to imitate virgin valleys. At night, the orange glow of street lamps rivers down the mountains, a pathway of modernized lava. I’m hyper aware of the latest studies: O’ahu will lose 17 miles of major transportation roads, including access to the airport due to rising sea levels; 38 miles of road loss for the entire state. Some of us, approximately 19,000 residents, will be displaced. I don’t know who’s talking about it, avoiding an inevitable invasion. It can grow out of control so quickly.

I find myself rubbernecking out of self concern and fear, casting glances at Kiribati (pronounced khi-ra-bus), its 33 atolls, its 120,000 residents. Some studies have projected their lands to be unlivable, underwater in thirty years. Basically, we are/were the same age. We are the same islands.

When we were five or six, we believed when pushing down on the fleshy base of your palm, above your wrist, the number of nodules that protruded beneath your skin would predict the number of kids you would have. I wanted four little bumps to appear, but was grateful for the two that I had had. My friend, who wasn’t sure if they wanted any, could never make any bumps appear. What did we know as we pressed our bodies for luck.

I’m not a Kiribatian nor do I know anyone who identifies as I-Kiribati (its indigenious people), but I think dignity occupies an expansive seat at the table. I read that the former President of Kiribati had purchased land in Fiji to prepare for his people’s exodus. But the current President is intent on remaining, revitalizing the economy to better situate themselves against global warming. I think about the street we grew up on, the fence bordering our backyard that my friend and I would jump ten minutes before school started. We are not the fence; we are not limited to binaries. I know what borders our divide is grander and farther than I’m able to comprehend.

How much of my identity, my culture is tied to the kitchen table of my upbringing or to my hometown? I never understood why I always remembered it as being larger than what it is now. They said there’s work that’s being done, but not necessarily shared. The closing of eyes, increased napping, as one acknowledges they are dying. The aim of treatment is to control the invasion for as long as possible, still everyone asks, How long do we have?
 

I’m reminded of the movie Anna and the King, and how under attack, the King hides his offspring to ensure the survival of his line. But how does one run from King tides and other forms of historical regicide, that incrementally increase, that slide into acceptable? I’m also wondering if time and distance are required in order to identify an event or to recognize that something’s changed? Chronic and passing flooding, increased labored breathing.

Within this past year, I’ve broken two bones: a toe and most recently, a finger. It’s a single digit or advice from a  best friend who’s unreachable. You realize how critical, how often you need it to function, how to balance the tang of a knife or knowing when to yield. I wasn’t aware that my best friend had prearranged their funeral plans, chose their urn, and drove to a studio to take their memorial image. I feel wonder at their bravery and somewhat guilty and sad of not being included. I worry for those who are left behind.

I worry for my children, some still on islands; others wanting at some point to return home. I would like to prepare, to have vision and bravery to save as many as I possibly can. Yet, who am I but one parent, an educator, a poet, a worrier, an alarmist, a humanist. I can only hope that one day our journeys and destinations merge, and we arrive safely in the most idyllic lands. The other day while typing these words on my computer, I thought I felt something tectonically shift in my bones. I’m still sussing out if it’s a sign of prolonged numbness or the tingling signs of being able to feel something again.