My Aunty Leona always greeted me the same way. I would step into her embrace and she would say "How you doing sweetie?" Before I could answer, she would rub my stomach and say, "Oh such a nice ‘ōpū." My other aunts would make remarks on my, ahem, stout build and say things like "you so momona" or some such, which would invariably make me upset. But Aunty Leona, rubbing my stomach like I was some buddha idol going to bring good luck never did. "How you doing sweetie?" squeezing me tight so I would, as I kissed her cheek, have my face pressed into her neck, "oh such a nice ‘ōpū. I love you."
That was the key. "I love you." The way my aunt said the word love, it had this roll to the "L" indicating a soft emphasis that really meant LOVE. My cousin and I chatted about this a couple of times, how she would be horrified if somebody did what her mother would do to me as a standard greeting. It never, not once, bothered me because my aunt meant it with love with every fiber in her being.
After greeting everyone, she would ask if anyone was hungry. She would offer whatever was made for lunch or dinner or in the refrigerator or even the freezer. "You want Portuguese bean soup? Aunty made for everybody?" So after rubbing my ‘ōpū she'd want to feed me.
Aunty Leona embodied what we call aloha in a way that I think few can rival. It was authentic. When I think of her, I think of love, aloha, ‘ōpū, and another word, a word that I hardly ever think of because it is a word that I seldom ever come across. Grace. She had a grace about her that now, upon reflection, I don't think I have ever encountered before, and I think I will never encounter again.
My Aunt was special. Unique. As I chatted with my cousin I realized that what hurt most about dying is what the people left behind lose. And what is it that I lose? I lose that greeting, that rubbing of my ‘ōpū, that soft statement of love that reverberated through my being. The last time I had an ‘ōpū rub was on Saturday, October 5. By the time the 12th came around Aunty could only play with my hair. She wasn't steady enough on her feet to rub my ‘ōpū. She passed on the 17th, taking away much, but leaving behind lessons of aloha and grace.
