Elaine in the Ashes of Lahaina

She picks up one It trembles Then tumbles to the floor Crack.

Shards of porcelain bounce across the cold tiles like broken memories. She doesn’t bend to collect them. She simply places the other cup Elaine’s favorite on the tray and walks barefoot toward the open door. Her eyes follow the lines of sunlight creeping through the blinds.

Upstairs, she places the cup beside a photo of a woman in red. The wedding dress. The laughter. The sun. All sealed in that frame. A ghost smiles back through the glass. Her wife says “Thank you,” with a voice as brittle as the cup on the floor. Had she expected her to sleep? Had she even wanted her to?

Elaine was more than tired. She was hollowed. Quiet. Her words, like the fires that swept Lahaina, burned quickly and left only shadows behind. The doctor had said days. Elaine said hours. She had asked them to make it peaceful. She had said it so many times it became ritual.

My wife didn’t expect to find me kneeling beside her when she came in.

“I was just trying to see what was missing,” I whispered. But I had already figured it out. My wife wasn’t ready for the truth, and I wasn’t cruel enough to hand it to her raw.

I pick up the pillow.

“No, don’t touch that,” she says quickly.

“What’s it going to do?” I say. “It’s not like it has muscle memory.”

I hold it exactly like I did hours ago. The weight of it feels different now. I drop it like it burns me.

“She asked us to,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” my wife nods. Her voice shakes. The silence between us is too loud.

I try to write the eulogy. The cursor flickers like breath. “Elaine was…” Then nothing.

Elaine was gaunt. Her body caved into itself like a burned forest. Her eyes were tired. But she was a person. A storm. A spell.

“She asked me to,” I type.

My wife leans over and hits delete. It disappears. Erased, like the town we left behind.

The sun begins to rise. Snow had fallen last night, which feels cruel. A blanket for the dead.

“Leave this,” she says, turning my chair. She pulls me gently to her. We kiss.

But it feels cold.

Her lips are soft, but there’s nothing behind them. She turns to leave. Her hand hovers over the lightswitch.

“Leave the light on,” I say. I think I say. Said?

She sighs. Flick. Light again. Her body drags like sandbags as she walks away. The latch clicks behind her. It’s quiet again.

All I want is to be with Elaine. Until morning. Until they come.

I hear wood creak. Familiar footsteps. But they echo now.

Back then, we had just lost our home.

And my job.

Before the fires, I was working in sales. One last warning. Six sales. Two canceled—those people afraid of their own ends. And just like that, mine arrived too.

Fate feels like something that chews. Relentless. That day in Lahaina, the wind spun in unnatural circles. It arced, screamed, danced with fury. They said it was a passing hurricane. But I had seen real storms before. This one twisted like guilt.

In 1992, during Hurricane Iniki, we had margaritas in hand as we waited for it to pass by. But it turned, tore Kauai in half, and reminded us we were never in control. But even then, the wind was kinder than the one on August 8, 2023.

This one felt planned. The fire didn’t consume it selected. Homes, yes. Memories, yes. But not everyone. That was the worst part. The choosing.

Elaine had said goodbye before the smoke came. She said she wanted no more goodbyes. Just one. And that we’d know when.

Now I sit, watching the cursor flicker like breath again. I type, “She asked us to.”

Elaine wore red to our wedding. A defiant color. A warning.

Now, all I see is red outside the window, glowing through ash.

They’ll come soon. With questions But I don’t have answers. Just this:

She asked us to.

Was it for her?or for her?