Wailua was a small town. Coming from Wahiawa the road meandered down the hill across cane fields and fallow fields of reddish earth, set off against the blue tapestry of the ocean. It was as James Michener described it . . unspoiled and beautiful.
The local McDonalds hosted twelve seniors who talked in quiet tones. It was a melange of silver-gray hair and rubber zoris. The Wailua Senior Center Housing was next door. This meeting at McDonalds was probably a respite from the constant barrage of care . . perhaps, they could find some peace and a senior coffee for 79 cents.
The whole area was bathed in sunlight and shade from the two huge banyan trees. I noticed a smallish woman, dark skinned, perhaps Thai, at the bus stop across the street from the McDonalds. She was busily pecking away at the phone. A brief smile every now and then. Then a laugh. Her straight brown hair reached down to her blue jeans, and she straightened up to watch me go by.
I wondered where she was going . . young, foot-loose and fancy free, waiting for the bus in Wailua.