The reunion committee mailed me a Deceased List. Did my 38 classmates think they’d disappear so fast? It’s tough connecting names to faces so I garage-search the yearbook, finding it wedged between Christmas lights and a box of boxing gear. I re-read the gone forever list. No way—Cecily? You lived in faculty housing with your Spanish-teaching father and Argentinian mother. I remember you flirting under Bingham Hall’s hala tree with a pack of surfers. I didn’t surf. I was a nerd. You were skilled at ignoring my stares. I worshipped your auburn hair streaked blonde, pierced ears, and rebel nature. In speech class you vowed to never attend college. Girls avoided you, except for Debbie. You gave her a purple ring in 4th Grade—she loved you for it. “Does this mean we’re married?” Debbie asked.
I recall others, including Evelyn the cheerleader and Chuck the bully. He shoved boys like me around and punched out challengers. I imagined “the Fight of The Century” pitted me against Chuck on Waialae Golf Course; Evelyn waved pom poms and cheered me on.
What happens when all the classmates vanish, including me? Does the school keep death records of all forgotten classes? Bet the president banks obits and hits up surviving families for donations in memory of the fallen. Not sure I want to be remembered, except maybe for asking Debbie to the prom. And for raising my fists to the school bully the day before graduation.
Kirby Michael Wright was born and raised in Hawaii. His family land on Moloka’i served as the breadbasket for Kamehameha’s warriors while training for their assault on Oahu. He is a Feature Writer for the Office of Hawaiian Affairs.
Modern Flash Fiction 