The Backyard

Haiku has a different atmosphere compared to other towns on Maui. I grew up in Haiku,

raised on Kokomo Road, in the red-roofed house across the street from Haiku Grocery. The

house is old with its moss-covered sides and slowly degrading wood, splintering from years

worth of rainy downpours and whipping winds. The driveaway of the house is graveled once you

make that left turn off the main road, past the single plumeria tree blossoming with small yellow

buds.

The front of the house is also graveled with the occasional crumbling section of concrete

worn down from countless car and bike tires. There’s a large canvas tent near the house,

stretching from the parking lot to the multiple sheds huddled near the chain-linked fence. To the

west of the property is a huge avocado tree with childhood toys stuck in the branches and

forgotten mechanic projects resting near its truck. To the east is a worn-down path to the

backyard, my favorite part of the house.

Under the lush grass with it’s few dry patches, lays the days of my childhood, the times

when things were simple and everything was bright. Behind the old rickety house, near the

sodden wooden steps, are two iron T poles with plastic wires strung through welded hoops. I

used to climb the poles and hang from them until my grandmother would yell at me to get down.

The long white PVC pipe attached to the washer sits under the poles, a tripping hazard for

unaware kids playing tag. I still trip over it to this day.

A small, thorny rose bush is tucked away beside tomato plants, nestled to the far left of

the yard, thriving beside the tall fence. A jungle of ti leaf plants and banana trees surround the

precious flowers, acting as a shield from bounding dogs who chewed through their leashes and

escaped. The tall hibiscus plants with its red and yellow flowers, border the back porch. The
plumeria tree next to my grandmother's room blooms with the sweet aroma of pink flowers. The

cool country breeze carries the scent back to the driveway.

A large tree that grew into the side of the house with roots snaked under the back porch

and branches weaved into nailed wood, still stands tall. A multi-colored array of stray frisbees

and hacky-sacks are still trapped within its branches. The single football that’s just a hairs out of

reach hasn’t deflated yet.

This backyard, with its overgrown weeds and beaten old trailer stuffed against the fence,

holds memories. The backyard where I grew up, where I played cops and robbers and intense

games of volleyball, scrapped my knees during hide-and-seek and camped in overcrowed tents

with too many bodies, is where I’m at my calmest. It might not look like much, just a square-

shaped yard and barely visible holes with hidden dog poop scattered throughout the area, but it’s

like my safe haven.

Within this grass holds thoughts of six kids, lazing under the bright weekend sun, talking

about our dreams and future. Behind the old house remains childhood games and high pitched

laughter that echoed down the streets. In this backyard contains memories of a man who mowed

the lawn every day, who tender the flowers with calloused hands. A man who watched his

grandchildren grow up with soft brown eyes and tender smiles.

The backyard might not be special to some people, but it holds my childhood, the days of

my youth protected from the churning storm of adulthood. The backyard grew old with me, but

it’s still young. It’s still the most beautiful place on Earth. It’s still my safe haven.