Mary Blunt's letter was wrapped in faded pink butcher paper, the kind so common during Bea's childhood. A length of twine held the pink paper in place just as her Uncle had said. The contents of the letter from Beatrix's grandmother was new information. The version of history she'd been told was not altogether different from what they all heard today, but, bits of it had been left out. Yes, she'd known about the regular monthly arrival of crackers. The fact she was hanai had always been part of her knowing. And yes, she knew Uncle Moon made sure she knew her true name, Beatrix Blunt, grand-daughter to Mary Blunt, and daughter to Mary Elizabeth Blunt, learned over time the meaning of her sacred name -- Moemoe-laukahi.
Today, in her Salish home it was the subtle yet powerful implications about her grandmother's mana that sent the chicken skin up her spine. Bea looked to Leslie for the tank of oxygen, and sat back in the old koa rocker, drawing in a slow stream of air. The three leis were strung, the fragrance heady. Leslie's face was a river of tears, Beatrix left her grandmother's letter wrapped as the oxygen relaxed her lungs. Tic, Tac and Toe congregated at Bea's knees, and waited for Crook. The dogs wanted out, they had business to attend to.
"How about a fresh cup of coffee," Alexa was reeling from the visit. "Caffeine". She wasn't sure what had happened in real time, the podcast connection? The three women weren't sure where in time they were. But a latte with whipped cream might help.