I am looking for you. Your home in the country is my beginning and ending, the humble Waianae house at the end of Hakimo road. On sleepless nights now in my forties, I search for the red house twenty-four years after Grandpa died, entering past the giant imported clam shells near the front door.
       The screech is what I remember most clearly. The chain link gate rolled on its rusty hinges across the dirt road, Grannie's tiny frame heaving it open to the driveway. I was a little girl, maybe eight, in the back seat of Grandpa's tan 1980 Chevy Malibu. The behemoth came to rest under the car port, a high pitched whine lingering as Grandpa shut the ignition off. Hot dust blew across our faces, the screen door grazing our backs as we entered through the heavy wood door.
       Grannie would have her hands full with packages from the day's trip to town. Early on before they had a washing machine, she carried in fresh linens smelling of Ivory soap from the laundromat. We would stop at the dusty, old Waianae post office to collect mail otherwise undeliverable to the rural road. Whatever the destination, all trips from the country house were farther than I could imagine. The Waianae house was, after all, another world. 
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