Every so often I get "homesick" even though I'm sitting in my sun-room here in Atlanta where I've lived since 1987. I consider myself a bit mixed up in terms of where my "home" is, becauseI think it will always be in Honolulu, Hawaii. I'm getting ready to board a plane for Hawaii in a few days to take my family back to visit my elderly father. I'm thankful he has preserved himself well by walking and staying active over all these years; it gives me a really good reason to share my heritage with my children and to help them know the culture and family that has helped form me. I'll be really sad one day when I won't have the joy of seeing his happy face upon our arrival; when I won't have him there to give a sweet goodnight kiss to; when I won't be able to share in our mutual love of all the local foods available to us in this very cosmopolitan island as he describes what he's eating for lunch or dinner.
And though I am eager to see all of my family, including my brother, sister, and their families, I anticipate the goodbye, and my heart breaks, and the salty tears cannot stop because each and every time I return "home," I know I'll have to say farewell, not knowing when I will be able to return. This is the hardest, most bitter-sweet part of going home.
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