KA WAI OLA
Volume 78 Spring 2024
Editors’ Note
This issue is like the beach it bears on its cover, with innumerable elements shaping it into the beautiful sight that it is. The magazine’s call for art was answered in kind with the waves of our community’s creativity. This edition of Ka Wai Ola, presents the rich thoughts of Punahou’s Academy, expressed through various poems, art pieces, and prose writings. With the fragrance of spring in the salt-scented breeze and the accompanying ponderings over exams, colleges, and the tantalizingly close promise of summer, our community created a veritable feast of works for all to savor.
This year, we received pieces with a wide variety of themes—from frazzled high school mornings and humorous poems in verse to soldiers deep in the trenches of war, and works of literary surrealism, and even whimsical gnomes. Developing a theme to encapsulate this great diversity of work was a challenge. After much riveting debate, we decided to organize the layout to represent the process of growing up. This issue floats from the simple and innocent joy of childhood to the burgeoning anxieties of adolescence, then settles into a more deeply self-actualized present. We hope that within these pages, readers will find an understanding of what it means to fit into this grand world.
We would like to thank everyone who has submitted their work to the magazine this semester. It takes a great deal of courage to submit one’s art for review, and it is a vulnerable act to expose works that lie so close to the heart. We are overjoyed by the flourishing community we’ve fostered over the years in Ka Wai Ola. Without our artists and writers, there is no magazine to speak of. Additionally, we would like to thank our editorial staff, who have turned weekly review discussions into lively moments of camaraderie that infused so much soul into the process of building this edition.
As our senior editors prepare to sail off into the open ocean of college and beyond, it comes upon those who still stand on the beach’s dunes, eyes turned toward the horizon, to infuse our aloha into the sands for all those who may set foot upon it. We hope we will be successful in this endeavor, and see the magazine itself grow and mature as symbolized by the pieces within.
From the Senior Editors-In-Chief
This semester’s edition guides us through the journey of life. The innocence of youth, moving into the excitement and turmoil of maturing, and eventually settling into satisfaction and peacefulness: a universal theme, which resonates with me especially deeply as I move on to a new chapter in my own life.
This is the final edition of Ka Wai Ola that I have the pleasure of working on. This publication has meant so much to me in my time at Punahou. I am honored to have helped spread the work of my incredibly talented peers. Leading the club alongside my fellow Editors-in-Chief has been a huge and very rewarding aspect of my high school experience.
I am so grateful for the support and dedication of all the wonderful people who make Ka Wai Ola possible. We’ve made some amazing memories together. I will always look fondly back upon sitting on the windowsill during meetings, cheering for Ava’s awesome announcement voice, and doing Definition Time with Mika. Thank you everyone at Ka Wai Ola for brightening my high school years with your passion, kindness, and love for art and literature.
The magazine has evolved so much over the last four years, and I am so proud of what it has become. I will dearly miss the work we do, the remarkable pieces we get to review, and especially the lovely community we’ve created. I have a huge amount of respect and trust for the upcoming Senior Editors-in-Chief and I know they will do great things. I hope all you readers out there have enjoyed and will continue to enjoy your peers’ beautiful art and writing creations. I am so excited for the future of this publication.
Farewell and much love, Mika Hiroi
As Editor-in-Chief of Ka Wai Ola since my sophomore year, I have had the sincere pleasure to lead a group of diligent, thoughtful students as we work to put together an empowering and meaningful publication. Leading Ka Wai Ola has profoundly shaped my perspective and understanding of the world—we all have a voice. This issue of Ka Wai Ola particularly resonates with me as Mika and I depart and leave this club in the hands of our capable rising seniors.
Ka Wai Ola has undoubtedly been an incredible part of my journey at Punahou. Discussing the power of art and words, reflecting on our society, and unpacking a range of emotions in response to submissions are all memories that will stay with me forever. I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to work with Mika throughout this process—and I’ll forever cherish her energetic front-row clapping before my routine assembly announcements.
As this chapter of my life comes to a close, I’d like to leave all of you with the famous words of Forrest Gump: “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.” Use your courage even in unprecedented times to share your voice and make a difference. And remember to also savor every moment of this beautiful life.
Sincerely,
Ava Pakravan
Table of Contents
Char Siu Bao
To the moon and back
The Second Week of April
And the Hours Melted Away
The Cheese Disease
Luna sleep//moon
Two Swans
Venus (Iris)es
Logan Mansfield ’24
Miranda Yap ’26
Iris Xu ’24
Ash Bu ’25
Lulu Cole ’27
Miranda Yap ’26
Scorch Zhai ’27
Iris Xu ’24
Noelani Brennan ’25
Iris Xu ’24
Mika Hiroi ’24
Crow Villanueva ’25
Jocelyne Kanaprach ’26
Mika Hiroi ’24
Logan Mansfield ’24
Noelani Brennan ’25
Table of Contents
A Nostalgic Summer
fishbowl bouquet
520
Wilikers
The Blue Jay
The World of Macro: Flower
Goldfish
Fishbowl Aquarium
Into the Glass
Porcelain Tea Set
WATERMELON
Morning Rush
Apiculture
BLACKOUT: Volume 1
Never a God
Gaze
Lost Prayers
Trilogy
Words of Redemption:
Reimagining
Alexandre
Cabanel’s Fallen Angel
Torso
Chloe Liu ’26
Allison Lin ’26
Gisella Lau Jong ’26
Mika Hiroi ’24
Steven Yang ’27
Christian Haraguchi ’26
Brooke Machado ’25
Gisella Lau Jong ’26
Anonymous
DJ Fujita ’24
Nesiah Mettler ’27
Tyf Katsuda ’26
Elizabeth Chee ’26
Kaylyn “Scout”
Fukunaga ’24
Brooke Machado ’25
Ada Kisselgoff ’25
Ziyu Dong ’25
Nessa Michaud ’25
Aika Middleton ’27
Elizabeth Chee ’26
Table of Contents
Art
Mirror, Mirror: A Reflection on
Beauty Standards
Blue and Whites
Heartfelt
The Pink Sunset
The Whistle Blows Again
Were We Born for This?
Stillness with Fruits
This One Will Never Be Finished
The World of Macro: Droplet
The Search
Ötzi
The World of Macro: Spider
Enchanted Pond
Warble
Snow Blanket on Forbidden City
Winkle
Snowfall
A Nostalgic Summer
Jiang Nan
Goldfish
Aika Middleton ’27
DJ Fujita ’24
Keiko Shinha ’27
Christian Haraguchi ’26
Steven Yang ’27
Steven Yang ’27
Sophie Chan ’26
Quinn Humber ’27
Christian Haraguchi ’26
Tyf Katsuda ’26
Elizabeth Chee ’26
Christian Haraguchi ’26
Brycen Lew ’26
Mika Hiroi ’24
Charles Ye ’26
Mika Hiroi ’24
Ada Kisselgoff ’25
Chloe Liu ’26
Nesiah Mettler ’27
’25
Digital Art | Allison Lin ’26
520
Digital Art | Gisella Lau Jong ’26
Char Siu Bao
Logan Mansfield ’24
I
Steam erupts from the bamboo cage that entrapped the ashen white warrior; red heart filled with pure intentions.
II
The child’s mind is clouded by melancholy and gloom. Hand him the bao, there is no other solution. The malice plaguing the crevasses within his mind will evaporate from their infected grasps and joy will return to the child.
III
The boar knew of only mud and chained enclosures. Side by side with brethren, their freedom revoked since the cries of birth. After six moons have flown the sky, the last grain within the hourglass plummets. The boar’s soul is dyed blood scarlet and sealed within dough.
IV
Between a soul with a char siu bao, and one without, one will reconcile his dueling dragons, battling amongst the stars of an inconceivable realm, handing them the sacred key; the quest for harmony completed. They drift down in the sea of tranquility with three souls merging into a single content embodiment. The other shall remain empty handed.
From the expansive blue above a benevolent arm extends. The warrior is lifted out of the cage: freedom.
The warrior’s rugged hands tenderly grasp him, however, the palms once extending generosity and care bear betrayal, as piece by piece the savior crushes him between rows of misshapen bone spears, deforming armor, tearing soft skin, yet the warrior remains silent as his pure red heart is left exposed to open air the steam that accompanied him in his cell flowing out.
Wilikers
Sculpture | Mika Hiroi ’24
The Blue Jay
Mixed Media | Steven Yang ’27
The World of Macro: Flower
Photography | Christian Haraguchi
’26
To the moon and back
Miranda Yap ’26
I see you when the world disappears, when it drops out from under my feet
Tumbling, head over heels into the inkiest black, dotted with silver stars and galaxies of purple
I’m free falling, past stardust worlds, the same amber as your hair
The fire of these foreign suns is reflected in your eyes
I’m staring as it dawns on me you’re the one who pulled the rug How sly, how mischievous you must be to have me fall into your beautiful heart
Now I’m weightless, free from gravity
You are the universe to me and it takes my breath away that When the world disappears, all I see is you
Digital Art | Brooke Machado ’25
The Second Week of April
Iris Xu ’24
“How can you lie through your teeth and feel absolutely nothing?” she demanded.
“I’m not lying,” he said. “I really saw a beluga whale in the sky.”
“But the cats aren’t even red today!”
“No,” he admitted. “They’re green.”
He paused.
“I don’t know why I can’t control myself,” he said sadly, with no hint whatsoever that he was sad. “I’m sorry.”
“You know, I always said I could never be with someone who thought cows were made of strawberries.” A bean sprout began growing out of her head, stretching its little leaves to the sky, where the supposed beluga whale had been.
“You have an idea,” he said stupidly.
“Shut up,” she snapped. “I’m having a baby.” The bean sprout was growing thicker and thicker, until its stem had the same radius as her skull, and the whole ginormous plant was towering above the couple, nearly blocking out the sun. There were still only two leaves on it, though, and between them, a small bump began to rise up. The bump grew and stretched the green membrane around it, becoming clearer, and clearer, until the membrane suddenly ruptured, and out between the leaves emerged a baby. It wasn’t a human baby, though. It was a rabbit. A gigantic pink lump of a rabbit baby, its eyes still closed, and mooing softly.
“It’s beautiful,” he said.
“Shut up,” she snapped. “I’m taking it back.” And down went the bean sprout, shrinking and shrinking, until the foliage disappeared entirely, leaving just a small green bump on the top of her head. The rabbit baby fell from its spot and landed in her arms. She frowned in frustration. “Why isn’t it going back?”
“Probably because the dung beetles are out,” he said, pointing at the ground. Indeed, there were lines of dung beetles, horrid things, crawling around at their feet, and the rabbit baby had opened
its eyes and was staring very intently at them.
“Gurgle,” it said. It was unclear whether or not it had actually said the word “gurgle” or if it had simply made a gurgling noise typical of a creature of its color. Perhaps both. You never know with babies born in the second week of april.
There was a loud mooing sound from above. The couple looked up, and saw a giant beluga whale flapping slowly through the sky.
“Ah,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Fishbowl Aquarium
Painting | Gisella Lau Jong ’26
And the Hours Melted Away
Ash Bu ’25
And the hours melted away
Like shimmering liquid diamond
Poured across sea foam with a capricious hiss
Drifted off into a glowing ocean
And lifted out by ancient spirits
And the hours swelled with gentle glory
Like salt fractals dripping from crystal caves
Lit by amber fire jittering on fresh tar
Regaling only the aquamarine sea
Both wonderfully aware of their own sublime allure
And the hours shone through everything forever after
Like the marvelous memory of sunshine
On a snow-coated wooden bench
Creaking and coughing in the midnight sky-murk
I find it strange that I often think of love in lofty analogies
As if you yourself are too broken to describe your own perfections
Or too pale a palette from which to pull your own portrait
Here is the truth:
I recall sitting down in the dark with wet hair in my face on a Saturday night
Hunched over a laptop, facing a default Discord icon
We hurtled three hours past midnight with shriveled red eyes
And I heard a glitching, choppy and computer-processed sound
An emaciated electronic facade of your guitar’s voice
And I was happy beyond measure
To feel the singing of your soul
Perhaps, then, if you’d let me speak once more in simile:
Love is like the sun
Radiant and bright and the giver of warm life
Too powerful to stare directly in the eye
I can build temples to celebrate secondhand sunlight forever
But there is no point until I look straight up into this glorious daylight and tell you I love you.
Into the Glass
Digital Art | Anonymous
Porcelain Tea Set
Sculpture | DJ Fujita ’24
The Cheese Disease
Lulu Cole ’27
I taste cheese
Cheddar cheerful, cottage cosmic
Endlessly fresh with a rustic edge
Umami, a slight nutty hint oozes into pops of butterscotch
Catch the herb, the acid, the tang and hold it tight on your tongue
I taste cheese
But I taste disease
I taste something, nothing like the American Dream, the charming cheesy champion I taste the opposite of French fine Roquefort rind from the best of the bovines that fine fromage
Is made up, a mirage
You make my stomach drop like the Twilight Zone
I’m falling down a putrid, reeking rabbit hole
back to the crackling microwave caked in crust
Pizza should be pristine, pleasing
But I taste you, sluggish, sloppy, slushy
You should be ashamed
There was no one else to blame
I taste preschool
Slippery sidewalk, soaked through sneakers
Just try it, you’ll love it
But you tasted of my revulsion
What I imagine rotten toothpaste would leave behind if used every night of every year
Not a delicate seaside or a searing salty-sweetness
A horrid middle ground, every flavor note amiss
I taste the party
Biting in
Burning sweet, pulpy, juiced to the max
But no, no mango were you
Instead, you tasted of diced deception, cunning, cruel, and cutting as ever
Just when I thought you couldn’t possibly go lower
Oh, the horror
I taste you now I hate you now
You nauseating ninny, You insensitive invader of infinite indigestion I hate your schadenfreude, your cruel streak
You’re not quite as poisonous, but cyanide is less gross
Yes, I hate you the most
WATERMELON
Drawing | Nesiah Mettler ’27
Morning Rush
Digital Art | Tyf Katsuda ’26
Photography | Elizabeth Chee
’26
BLACKOUT: Volume 1
Digital Art | Kaylyn “Scout” Fukunaga ’24
The moon seems lonely
Is she okay up there, shining by herself?
Luna Miranda Yap ’26
Does she wish for someone’s care while she arcs across the sky?
Or does she venture out alone because she knows nobody is there
No one to hold her back, Or to hold her when she’s blue
She endures so much, strong and brilliant through clouds and rain
And though she waxes and wanes, she knows
She deserves the inner peace and power that accompanies solitude
Clouds mist past, but she holds her ground
I wish I had her courage
To stand and glow when all the sun wants is to push her down
Never a God
Digital Art | Brooke Machado ’25
sleep//moon
Scorch Zhai ’27
You cannot sleep.
The light of the moon streams in from your window and you cannot sleep. You slip off the bed, bathed in silver, and wrap the night around you like a cloak, and you cannot sleep.
You cannot sleep, so of course, the logical decision is to scale the buildings as if you cannot bear to belong to the earth.
You know which floorboards creak, how to step exactly so that the carpet muffles your steps. You steal across the hall like a wisp of smoke, unhooking a single bronze key from the chain to keep in between your teeth. The handle of the door yields to your touch, like the smoke, and you step into the cold, cold night.
You do not put on shoes.
You close the door behind you like your mother has yelled at you to, gentle, turning the knob so it does not make a whisper of sound. The pavement is damp and chilled, although this does not concern you much. You glide around the house, shadows and eyes darting out of sight at the corners of your vision. The strays around here do not know you, not like the tree does, not like the sky does.
You heft your body up the knots of the tree, glory-stained in the summer, but it is not the summer, and you are young yet. You cannot see, but you do not need to, you could climb eyes closed if you so wished. Your hands find the holds, and you pull yourself up into the dappled moonlight with the ease and grace of a cat, or maybe of a bird, or maybe of something more ethereal and inhuman, you do not know. You slink across the branch that marks the way to the roof, and because she loves you, the moon welcomes you into the night, fingers finding every curve of your body, embrace lighter than
a lover’s.
You make your way to the peak of the roof, balancing on the tip and tilting your face up to the sky, and if you breathe in and out and in the right way, you can feel her touch, like silk, coating your face. Your lips part, ever so slightly, and your lungs fill with gilded silver and soft light.
You do not know it, but you glow. Something smiles in the dark. You do not know if it is the thing in your head or you.
Here, you are safe. Here, fully bathed in silver like liquid, here, cradled by the wind that blows through your bones, here, where you bare yourself to the sky, here—
You can finally sleep.
Digital Art | Ada Kisselgoff ’25
Lost Prayers
Digital Art | Ziyu Dong ’25
Two Swans
Iris Xu ’24
We sway in silvery lights of darkness, Two swans entangled in a spectacular performance of affection.
I sway in dark pools of blinding silver, A swan drowning alone in a bloody performance of devastation.
Trilogy Drawing | Nessa Michaud ’25
Words
Drawing | Aika Middleton ’27
Venus
Noelani Brennan ’25
Your face wasn’t carved by God himself, he created this world too cruel, to think he could etch features so soft one must be a fool.
Nay, I know the way your face was born— how this view began to unfurl. A block of marble was placed in the heavens; an iridescent slab of pearl.
And all of the angels went into file, one-thousand sunbeams in line, and they prepared to erode to your delicacy and craft this vision divine
And- they each kissed the block softly with a love previously known, only when the sky fell down to brush the glinting sea-foam.
And ceaselessly the procession painted all of the wonders that exist. This masterpiece of time and love; your face was angel-kissed
And when the loveliest beauty in all the ages had appeared, the angels wrapped their arms around you for their newest sister was here.
Torso
Drawing | Elizabeth Chee ’26
Mirror, Mirror: A Reflection on Beauty Standards
Drawing | Aika Middleton ’27
Blue and Whites
Sculpture | DJ Fujita ’24
Heartfelt
Drawing | Keiko Shinha ’27
Iris Xu ’24
The rain always makes me feel this way.
The rain always makes me feel like I want to sit outside with you and touch your neck,
Hold your hand, trace the ridges and valleys with my finger
And feel our black rings tap quietly against one another,
Our palms slightly damp from the moisture in the air.
The rain always makes me feel like I want to watch your face for infinity,
Watch the beautiful amber irises waver slightly as they watch mine doing the same.
Your eyes are gorgeous, gorgeous, and the rain makes me want to Lean in closer until I’m breathing you and you me.
The rain always makes me feel this way.
The rain always reminds me that you really are sitting outside next to me,
My fingers resting lightly on your neck, Our hands intertwined,
Our palms damp,
Our eyes observing each other, keeping afloat in the rain drops that pass between them.
Your eyes are gorgeous, gorgeous, And I’m leaning in so that I can breathe you,
So the rain remembers to tell me that your gorgeous eyes are focused ahead, Ignoring me, Lightless.
The Pink Sunset
Photography | Christian Haraguchi ’26
The Whistle Blows Again
Drawing | Steven Yang ’27
Were We Born for This?
Drawing | Steven Yang ’27
Mika Hiroi ’24
and all of this over in an instant even the blue blossoms dim even pink laughter muted behind foggy windows even the glasses that shine and glitter together, then apart, lost in hazy golden light dancers spinning as if atop music boxes and young lovers with lips locked in passion.
but so far it feels: rushing, red-flushed breathlessness, brushing hands, skirts swishing unheard under a drone of collective delight.
so estranged from this still, pale evening, where the only dancers are lace hems, drifting slow over cool earth and petals swaying in the breath of the night.
so far it seems, and so strange to think it will not last forever
because even under the distant gaze of the stars, in the silence and cold, gooseflesh running like giggles up conch shell arms, there is a quivering, a buzzing anticipation. there is life in the gentle quiet, hugging pregnant air like the deep scent of rain, heavy and rich, like milk warm from the teat.
but how quick it is over, over.
a pity, when flowers still dance in the chill breeze and lace whispers on the damp earth, yellow petals peeking from under its cover, night clinging to its pale purity, as if knowing its impermanence.
even the smiling blue forget-me-not hunches, its slim silhouette whittled by the white of the moon. it wilts under the steel boot of time, its head drooping to dirt, which is like ash in wavering light.
thin fingers curve like a frown as they drum in a heartbeat, thumping with the disquiet of being.
but even as it bends, the blossom shimmers, its face turned to the light. remember me not for the goodbye, the forget-me-not sighs, but the brilliant blue I gave you.
the blue is richer for brevity, simple and satisfied with parting. the drumming slows, for one could cling as if to be made eternal, thrusting herself into flame, orange and rageful and dazzling. as a thousand eyes turn in horror and awe, remembered in a dash of fury,
desperate, clawing or she might be a blossom dappled in pale moonlight, but for a breath, a sigh from behind curves of pink and pearl, one breath to bend her petals, enchantment alighting on sapphire satin then all of it over in an instant.
Stillness with Fruits
Painting | Sophie Chan ’26
One Will Never Be Finished Drawing | Quinn Humber ’27
The World of Macro: Droplet
Photography | Christian Haraguchi ’26
The Search
Digital Art | Tyf Katsuda ’26
Ötzi
Digital Art | Elizabeth Chee ’26
NMAAHC
Crow Villanueva ’25
Under the sweet scent of cherry blossoms
Falling in the sharp spring breeze
Crossing through the tiled halls
Gazing over the cases of illuminated art
Something strikes me as familiar:
Perhaps it is the coiled hair, worn as a crown. Perhaps it is the figure, that wore the hanging gowns. Perhaps it is the anger, simmering barely underground. Perhaps it is the voices, raised in those well-known sounds. Perhaps it is the tiredness, dragging weary eyes down. Perhaps it is the hope, keeping us all around.
Or perhaps it is my own face, eyes black, skin brown.
The World of Macro: Spider
Photography | Christian Haraguchi ’26
cadences
Jocelyne Kanaprach ’26
We live in an age of fluency. I come and go, the trees drop their leaves I drop my guard in an attempt to be friendly.
The birds do not respond, nor the cicadas I covet so much, if only for a bit of heart— and nothing else.
Truly, it is a miracle, to hear the cars rush by, to face the fear on the edge of the road. The years have passed: I have not moved from my inadequacy.
The cars will continue their rush, the birds will continue their song, I die a thousand times for their wings, and this age will come to a close
Enchanted Pond
Photography | Brycen Lew
’26
Years From Your Tomorrow
Mika Hiroi ’24
She was shaking as she tiptoed to see her father’s face, which was crooked back too far as it sunk into the stark white pillows. Her knees wobbled, but her smile kept her standing. The fluorescent light glinted off her teeth and drew the color out of her dimpled cheeks.
Those lights had a special talent for making things appear already-dead. Already-dead was like a dried-out portrait on yellowed papyrus, enshrined behind glass in a museum. Already-dead was a face in a photograph crinkled in an everlasting smile, reduced to a faded black and white memory.
Her father looked already-dead, but it was not because of the lights. He would look already-dead if he were laid in a field of daffodils. His skin hung like an ill-fitting suit, sagging off a big-boned body that had shrunk too fast. His hair came in almost invisible patches, poking out above his sunken face. The machines were keeping him alive like an android. The twisted tubes and metal rods towered over him, making him look small in his bed.
It scared her—her father’s laugh replaced by unfeeling and intermittent beeping, his concave heart caged by metal stents, and his arms too thin to wrap her in an embrace—but still she tip-toed up and kissed his ashen cheek. His breaths sounded like dry leaves, brown and skittering over bone-cold streets. A strangled noise escaped his dusty throat as his hand twitched toward hers. His eyes were wide, desperate to deliver the words that his broken body could not produce.
“I’ll see you soon, Daddy.” And she left. The elevator was empty as it dropped down. Her stomach hurt. She watched the orange numbers light up, changing silently: 6, 5, 4, 3... The silence in the elevator was loud. It was loud like her father’s raking breaths or the dull hum of his machines. It sounded like his eyes—wide and almost amber—meeting hers and deafening her with nothing. She saw him still, lying dried out under the already-dead lights. She wondered if he was strong enough
to lift the TV remote to fill the time.
The doors dinged open and the sound of the hospital lobby’s bustling and rushing burst in. The racket in the lobby was quieter than the elevator and her father’s tear-stained yellow eyes. It was silent compared to his lonely hospice, stretching out like infinity without her. She found her finger had pressed the number six.
Time ran like honey on the way back up, spilling slowly and smothering her in its surety. 1, 2, 3, 4.... The elevator’s mirrored walls were closing in, reflecting her pinched face back at her too close, too big, too many times. Dashing back strands of black hair, she saw her lips trembling. In her wide eyes, she saw a familiar desperation. She breathed hard because what if he was looking for her, and what if he was all better and she was not there, and what if he had to go to his next treatment and they took him away, and what if he wasn’t there when she got back, and what if what if and what if
Her tight breaths were clawing out of her when the orange number blinked: 6. The elevator doors opened just as fast as they always did, but much too slow. A pitter-patter slapped through the hall as she rushed across the tiles to lay her hand on the cold metal door knob. Pushed onto her toes, she peered up towards the small square window at the top of the gray door. Her hand suddenly slick with sweat, she found she could not make herself open the door. She blinked and hiccuped as the knob twisted itself beneath her clammy fingers. As the door vacuumed away from her, she stumbled into white skirts.
“Is he still in there?” She craned her neck around the nurse’s legs, but the door swung shut.
“Not right now, honey.” The nurse’s voice was soft as she reached her hand out to the child.
The child’s heartbeat was loud in her head, and the nurse’s hand stopped in the air. The nurse’s lips were still moving, but the words were silent now. The child could feel herself smiling. She nodded, letting her spine stiffen to steel, as if she were an android too.
“It’s alright,” she said, firm and slower than honey. “I’ll see
him soon.”
- - - - - -
“...and if that bitch of a nurse hadn’t been there…” I glared through the square window as a set of elevator doors closed gently. “But it’s alright. I’m here to set things right. It’s going to be alright.”
I gritted my teeth as I made to turn the knob. My heels ground on the floor and my eyelids stuck together. The doorknob seemed to swallow my fingers. I felt my lips part for a ragged breath.
“But can you believe it? That bastard lied to me because you were here the whole time, and I’ll never forgive her, and—” A shaky laugh tumbled out of me, bouncing off the door. “You’d be angry with me, you know. For spending all that money just for a moment here again…”
He used to tell me about how he could make money double, like magic. When he was a kid, he never got an allowance, but he sure as hell had spending money. His mother never did figure out how he always came home with his lunch bag empty, but his pockets full of nickels. He’d sell his apple, half a sandwich, his homework answers, anything he could spare. And he had worked hard. When I was young, he had worked long hours—before I woke and long after I’d fallen asleep—because his time wasn’t money. Money was money, and hard work was the only way to it.
“I’d have spent everything for this.” I spoke to the door, so the truth came easy.
When I turned around, it was quieter than I remembered. A frail man lay dying in a white bed, his head tilted too far back on his pillows. The lights beat down, unyielding and noiseless.
“Daddy—” The word blew out like a sob and I was that little girl again. “I—”
The heavy years of waiting struck me, stealing the breath from my lungs and making my knees buckle. I rushed to him, crumpling into a scarlet plush chair at the far side of the bed. My legs were shaking and I felt that I would melt into the floor. When he was strong, he would lift me into his arms after I fell down and hold me while I cried. He had been my sun, warm
and constant. I would look up and the rays of his smile shimmered down to dry my tears.
It had become harder to cry, after. It hurt more without him. It was cold.
“I missed you,” I said, and the tears fell then. He was just as I remembered, and so different. His face was too skinny and laughterless. Under those white lights, he still looked almost-dead, but he was smaller than I had imagined, impossibly small. The machines towered over this skin and bone almost-carcass, sighing down at him with their mechanical buzz. His piss-yellow skin puckered around the IV in his forearm as his fingers twitched toward me. I bunched my hands in my skirt to keep them from trembling.
“7354 days. That’s how far I traveled to be here, be now, again. You would never believe the things we can do. All the technology. Time is money now, Daddy. You wouldn’t believe it. I can hardly believe it myself, sometimes. 7354 days! That’s a long ways to send me. It’s a marvel. 7354.” I was ashamed when my voice broke. “I didn’t know it had been so long.”
They had not told me he was dead until the next morning. The wailing in my ears had not seemed to be my own, but it had lasted forever. The days had blurred together with my tears so when we picked him up from the funeral home, it had seemed too soon. I had held his ashes in my lap on the way back, the corner of the box digging into my leg as the car bumped along. It felt like a long way home.
“You’d be proud of me, Daddy.” The words spilled out of me faster than my tears. “I worked hard, just like you. I wanted to make you proud. I think you’d be proud. I was smart, just like you always said I would be. Top of my class out of high school. I got a big scholarship for university. I got my degree. I’m starting a new job tomorrow. Well, my tomorrow. Years from your tomorrow. Though, I suppose you don’t have a tomorrow.”
I chuckled, short, dry, and humorless. He blinked back at me, through the deep and silent sorrow between us.
“I wished you could have seen me. All my successes. It was hard, without you.” I admitted, shaking my head. “Every time, in a
crowd of cheering faces, I looked for one that wasn’t there.”
After my graduation, there had been a roar of relief and rejoicing. The cry of a whole class’ jubilation had filled my ears and toothy grins had flashed past in droves, but it seemed that I had watched from behind glass. He had been gone for years, but the tears had still stung as hot as the first day after.
“I always thought of you in those moments. After I’d worked my ass off, then stood at the top of the mountain, so to speak. All the awards, the money I made… That wasn’t important, really. What was important was that I made you proud. What was important was how, every time, I remembered your smile. Every time.” I was silent for a moment after that.
I reached out and held his hand in mine. It was knobby, the soft skin sliding easily over his knuckles. His fingers were thin and his nails were brittle, but his hand was still bigger than mine. I sniffed, a small smile rounding over my lips.
“I remember this.” I gave a tear-soaked giggle, and for an instant, I imagined that—just a little, just at the corners of his mouth—he was smiling back. “I remember holding your hand. Everything was alright if I was holding your hand, because I thought you were the strongest man in the world. I never told you so, but I did. I should have told you. I’m sorry.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry that you’re gone. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry that I didn’t say—
“I’m sorry that sometimes, I couldn’t remember your face. It felt like cheating to look at old pictures to remind me. I wish I could have just held that image of you in me, sharp and clear for every day after, but I forgot. I’m so sorry.
“I did forget what you looked like sometimes, forgot your voice, but I never forgot you. I promise. Sometimes I remembered you so much that I didn’t want to live without you, but I knew you didn’t want me to follow. You wanted me to live, work hard, and dream, and run and play and you wanted me to be strong.
“I tried my best. The trouble with strength is that first, you have to feel yourself so weak. So weak that you might break and you might fall. And no one can catch you. But that is strength though, isn’t it? Living with that breaking, that falling sensation. I
tried. I tried.
“I know you didn’t make it as long as you wanted to, but when you were here… When you were here, it was the best. Even when your hair fell out, even when you couldn’t speak anymore, even when you were breaking. Even now. I still think you’re the strongest man in the world. And I’m proud of you.”
His hand gripped at mine, his feeble fingers curling as far as they could. His head lifted from the bed. I moved the pillows up, so they cradled his head, gentle like a songbird’s nest. A gurgle sounded deep in his throat.
“Shhh, shhh. I know.” I whispered past my tight throat. “I see you, Daddy. I see you now—right now—and it’s enough.” I closed my eyes, an intense nothing in my head. I had come to let a girl through a hospital door to her almost-dead father. He lay dying before me, his breaths shuddering and slow. When my eyes fluttered open again, he was covered in a sheen of sweat. There was a big and desperate look on his face again. I could hear the words in his eyes, this time: The same words they had always said. I swallowed hard and nodded, because I could not trust myself to speak.
His eyes fell shut and did not open again. My breaths were even as his hand grew limp and cold in mine. I unwound my fingers from his and stood, my skirt swishing about my ankles. My footsteps on the cold tile were louder than my heart beating in my ears as I walked to the door. I put my hand on the knob and opened it fast.
A child stumbled forward, crashing into my legs. She was almost panting as she poked her head around my body.
“Is he still in there?” she asked, her voice like a whistle. I pulled the door shut, letting it click behind me. The girl looked up at me, her dark hair hanging straggled around her wet face. She had been crying, but she did not seem to notice.
“Not right now, honey.” My own tears had dried to salt trails, faintly cracking on my cheeks as I spoke.
I felt my arm stretched out to her on its own accord. I wanted to hold her, wipe her tears away, and lift the wretched bog which had settled over her head. I wanted to pull her into my chest
and shield her desolate eyes from the world, but her stare was far away, like she did not see me anymore. In her eyes there was nothing but the delusional and cold rationale that is born from anguish.
Puppet strings jerked the corners of her mouth back up. My hand hung frozen in the air, suspended halfway between us.
“He wasn’t alone in the end.” My voice spilled out of me like a mist. “And he knows, kiddo. He knows that you love him.”
My fingers curled into my palm and I let my arm swing back down to my side. She was nodding, slowly. It was as if she were fighting through the air itself, which was thick with a devastating hopefulness.
“You okay, kiddo?”
“It’s alright,” she said, with conviction. “I’ll see him soon.”
Mixed Media | Mika Hiroi ’24
O Dry and Resilient One: Cactus
Logan Mansfield ’24
Wither away, o dry and resilient one, Brought into a somber world of paychecks and stress, I’m guilty for the pain my hands have spun.
Confined to a pot, no legs to skip to the sun. Placed half a pace too far to the right, no voice to protest, Wither away, o dry and resilient one.
Given as an offering at the end of the twelfth month, To a woman with no gardening skills possessed, I’m guilty for the pain my hands have spun.
I had fallen in love since the prick of my thumb. The spikes–our children, held close to the breast, Wither away, o dry and resilient one.
Watching others in bright blazes play and have fun, While the stomach of darkness slowly digests, I’m guilty for the pain my hands have spun.
Curse my wicked co-creator, accepting the bestowed from her son, Proceeding to ignore my beloved, over her work; too obsessed. Wither away, o dry and resilient one, I’m guilty for the pain my hands have spun.
Snow Blanket on Forbidden City
Photography | Charles Ye ’26
Winkle
Sculpture | Mika Hiroi ’24
Digital
Art
| Ada Kisselgoff ’25
A Nostalgic Summer
Photography | Chloe Liu ’26
Passage to the World’s Edge
Noelani Brennan ’25
My sails are never lowered I’m engaged in perpetual motion the oarsmen cry from exhaustion their sweat runs and refills the ocean but I will never pause the Edge is my lifetime’s devotion
the captain is going crazy he hasn’t slept in weeks the deck is falling apart the waves keep crashing on peaks I will not abdicate my goal despite a hull ridden with leaks
the navigator ignores the brewing storms keeps the course set to delusion below deck, a crazed fiddler performs perpetual syncopated confusion he may rest and enjoy sanity when my journey reaches its conclusion
but if I stop for a moment to think cease the sailing, simply become buoyage What am I then? Just a ship? Collapsed on the brink? No, I fall apart so I am a Voyage.
Jiang Nan
Digital Art | Nesiah Mettler ’27
Writers’ Statements
Ash Bu ’25, And the Hours Melted Away (23-24)
I talk too much. So, I challenged myself with this piece to create a real emotion in as few words as possible.
Lulu Cole ’27, The Cheese Disease (27-28)
I wrote this poem a few months ago in response to the prompt to write about a food that we feel passionate about. Most students picked something they love: kimchi, french fries, Taco Bell Chalupa Supreme. I took it the other way. This poem is my attempt to express my discomfort and frustration with the prevalence of cheese in the foods that we eat. Although this may seem like a trivial matter, cheese is my nemesis and writing this poem was a vehicle for me to explore these feelings more deeply.
Scorch Zhai ’27, sleep//moon (35-36)
I do not remember much of the past, save this: I was a drifting child, like something alien wandering among the bright and bold of the world, fingers grasping at the colors as if untangling string. So perhaps, it would make sense that under the lonely gaze of the moon, in the sky where winds tumble and run restless, is where I felt the most comfortable in my skin.
Crow Villanueva ’25, NMAAHC (60)
NMAAHC stands for “National Museum of African American History and Culture.” It is located in Washington, D.C.
I had the good fortune to visit this museum over spring break and was struck by the art, artifacts, and stories displayed there. While I was not able to see the whole museum, the galleries I did get through stuck with me particularly. I allude to many of these in my poem, such as, for example, the gowns of Ella Fitzgerald, Denyce Graves, and Whitney Houston that are displayed among many other items in the music gallery. Yet, what stuck with me the most was seeing people who were like me. I have not spent much time in Black spaces throughout my life, quite the opposite really, so the feelings of understanding and recognition that I experience in those seldom occasions that I am in Black spaces are still new to me. I sought to capture this novel feeling along with the sense of wonder I experienced
while walking through that museum, asking if one day, I’d see my own face there, not only as a reflection but also as an exhibit.
Jocelyne Kanaprach ’26, cadences (62)
This piece was inspired by taking a moment in time, having it become still, and reflecting on the world around us and what will happen to it as time goes by. The title is “cadences,” a music reference that means a set of chords. The chords are meant to close, or partially close, a phrase of music, just like how as one era closes out, another begins. The final line of the poem is meant to be only partially satisfying and an decent enough end, although one might always wonder how else the poem could have ended. The abrupt ending, in a way, was me wondering how things might have been if a certain passage of time had been used differently.
Additionally, cicadas are associated with the symbolism of rebirth, personal change, and transformation, so I just wanted to have them little winged guys in there.
Mika Hiroi ’24, Years From Your Tomorrow (64-70)
My father passed from cancer when I was ten. I never said goodbye. My final words to him were “I’ll see you soon.” For years I’ve regretted this, and pondered what I would say to him if I could go back in time. I used the device of time travel to further examine my grief. This piece was an exploration in loss and acceptance of the past.
Artists’ Statements
Gisella Lau Jong ’26, 520 (12)
Dedicated to my mom: 520.
Steven Yang ’27, The Blue Jay (16)
A curious blue jay.
Christian Haraguchi ’26, The World of Macro: Flower (17)
I decided to submit this photo because of two things: the size of the flower and how well I thought it represented an actual flower blooming (and such). To add more, I thought that size of the flower was significant since in actuality, it is a really really small flower (hence the title). However, more importantly, I liked how this photo perfectly encapsulated the “life” of a flower as you are able to see flowers that haven’t bloomed yet, flowers that are just starting to bloom, and flowers that are in the midst of full bloom.
This is part of the collection: The World of Macro.
Nesiah Mettler ’27, WATERMELON (29)
Originally a challenge I did with my friend Amelie to pass time. We were both trying a new realistic art style and we settled on drawing watermelon. I honestly didn’t expect it to turn out as good as it did. It was actually my first time using Prismacolor pencils; they weren’t even mine, they were Amelie’s. I had a reference picture that I used, I just added colors that seemed relevant and somehow it all came together. Imitating the texture is ultimately my next goal. Amelie was definitely my biggest inspiration then. She was always supportive of my art and she’s an incredible artist herself; I wouldn’t have continued drawing if it weren’t for her.
Tyf Katsuda ’26, Morning Rush (30)
I created this piece to practice drawing an actual scene, trying out a more dynamic/complicated pose than what I usually go for, and the feeling I have every morning of rushing to get ready. I added more texture and brush variety than what I use for simple portraits and the colors of this piece turned out very fun and vibrant! It always makes me smile when I look at it and I was proud enough of it to submit it here. :D
Kaylyn “Scout” Fukunaga ’24, BLACKOUT: Volume 1 (32)
This drawing is an exploration of my concepts for the cover of my comic’s first volume. (The series is called Blackout; check it out @ blackout.comic on Instagram!) This piece was printed out as a poster and displayed in the Studio Art exhibition that took place earlier this year between December and January, and was entered as part of my senior art portfolio for the Scholastic Art and Writing 2024 competition. Since I intend to self-publish the comic series and have it printed out in a paperback format, I decided to use this piece as an opportunity to see how I can ‘show, not tell’ the storyline of the comic through the front cover alone. I wanted this piece to give a strong impression of the horror and sci-fi themes throughout the story, and to give readers enough visual cues and questions that they will be enticed to read the comic. And, since this was also intended to help me explore my artstyle, I decided to embrace the messiness and the texture of my lineart and contrast it with both softer and harder types of lighting and shape language.
Ziyu Dong ’25, Lost Prayers (38)
This was originally a random character that I decided to draw for the fun of it, but then I ended up painting this setting of a cyberpunk-ish city and liked it a lot. This boy, a feeling of suffocation, and his pained eyes praying for a better future. The signs, in Russian saying “heart donation” and “adoption?” perhaps showing the state of this city, alongside the lantern lights lighting up the boy because there is no natural light source at all.
Nessa Michaud ’25, Trilogy (40)
This drawing is inspired by Makima from Chainsaw Man and represents to me the coexistence of good, bad, and evil in her character. I enjoyed creating contrast between the neat layers of colorful fabric found in the folds of her skirt and the chaotic strokes in her wing. With this I hoped to replicate the dichotomy between her surface character and her inner being. The “Trilogy” is found in multiple details of the drawing; specifically in her faces and spliced figure. The torso stands out in its simplicity: caught between the labyrinthine skirt and disarray in the solitary wing.
Aika Middleton ’27, Words of Redemption: Reimagining Alexandre Cabanel’s Fallen Angel (41)
In ‘Words of Redemption,’ I’ve reimagined Alexandre Cabanel’s ‘Fallen Angel’ using tragic Greek mythology poems. Each word serves as a brushstroke, visually representing humankind’s pain, suffering, and darkness. This piece invites viewers to explore the emotional spectrum, from despair to hope, and show a different perspective of Lucifer’s story, as Alexandre Cabanel hoped to show through the original painting. Through this fusion of visual and literary art, I aim to evoke the haunting beauty and eternal themes present in the original story of the fallen angel.
Aika Middleton ’27, Mirror, Mirror: A Reflection on Beauty Standards (44)
This drawing depicts a young woman crying in front of a mirror, expressing the pain and despair of living in a society that imposes unrealistic and oppressive beauty standards. She unhappily removes her makeup, wishing that she could look more like the flawless, “perfect” models she envies so deeply. The mirror reflects not only her physical appearance but also her distorted self-image and low self-esteem. The drawing is a powerful message of the harmful effects of media on women’s mental health and well-being.
Christian Haraguchi ’26, The Pink Sunset (48)
This photo was taken when my family and were driving down Mt. Charleston; it was around evening time, when I saw the sunset and the thing about the sunset that caught my eye, the sky. Since sunsets (as far as I am aware of) are usually littered with various shades/hues of orange and red (or that with some pink-like colors) once I saw a noticeably more pink and cooler (temperature wise) sunset I knew I had to try and get a photo, especially since most photos of sunsets are orange/red. I experimented with different focal lengths, lens filters, and apertures, eventually landing on this photo.
Steven Yang ’27, The Whistle Blows Again (49)
A few soldiers are preparing for an attack after their officer blew his whistle. The fate that awaits them is unknown.
Steven Yang ’27, Were We Born for This? (50)
War is hell, terror, and not a solution to any one of our problems. This drawing was based on a photo of British soldiers enjoying their temporary peace during the battle of Somme in World War I. My artwork is dedicated to every soldier’s great sacrifice, and was made to promote peace.
Christian Haraguchi ’26, The World of Macro: Droplet (56)
When I took this photo it had just rained at Punahou, meaning it was an opportunity to get photos I wouldn’t normally be able to get, photos with water as a subject/within the photo. Eventually, after walking around campus for a while, I was able to find a couple plants with water droplets on them, after taking a few I soon landed on this one.
This is part of the collection: The World of Macro.
Christian Haraguchi ’26, The World of Macro: Spider (61)
I took this photo because I wanted a photo of an ant, not a spider. To give background, it was summertime and I was at Punahou trying to take macro photos (as I had a lot of time to kill during summer school) of anything I could find. So I was near Bishop when I saw a rather big ant that I could take photos of, however, it ran away before I could get any good shots. But I got lucky since right as it ran away this spider appeared out of the blue, so I took the opportunity to take a couple of photos before it ran away too. Which then resulted in this photo.
This is part of the collection: The World of Macro.
Brycen Lew ’26, Enchanted Pond (63)
Over the summer, I took the Color Digital Photography class. We were fortunate enough to be able to go to the Botanical Gardens in Kaneohe. Around an hour into the field trip, we came across this large pond that was flooded with golden fish (similar to the ones we had at the lily pond a few years ago). Ducks flocked to our position, curious to see the new guests. Many wandered in and around the pond. A good number of them were friendly enough to come close to us. Or perhaps they were wondering if they would get a quick snack. As we took photos for our assignment, I saw two ducks in the pond and a swarm of fish approaching. Realizing the opportunity, I observed the scene until fortunately, the school of fish engulfed the water below the two ducks. This is the magical moment that I was fortunate enough to capture.
Ada Kisselgoff ’25, Snowfall (75)
There was a snowfall almost if not every winter when I was living in Brooklyn. I drew this piece recently when I was looking through some old photos of past winters, and reminiscing of the times when I would experience the snow with friends and family :)
Chloe Liu ’26, A Nostalgic Summer (76)
This was taken 2 years ago at Waikiki beach. This summer was especially special because it was the summer before 9th grade. Perhaps, the entire summer I was reminiscing about the memories in middle school, and how I had two months to hang out and have fun! However, I barely had time to get my brain ready for 9th grade and the emotional baggage that came with that.
Editorial Staff
Boardwalk Editors-in-Chief
Writing & Management
Mika Hiroi ’24
Art & Administration
Ava Pakravan ’24
Layout Editor
Sonrisa Junior Editors
Caleb Lee ’25
Ash Bu ’25
Caleb Lee ’25
Crow Villanueva ’25
KG Pan ’25
Conch Advisors
Jill Sprott
Mark Pangilinan
Sandbar
Staffers
Benjamin Watanabe ’26
Claire Kitsutani ’26
DT Alam ’25
Ella Alexander ’25
Greg Lippert ’26
Irene Zhong ’24
Isabella Liu ’26
Jocelyne Kanaprach ’26
Jovie Okamoto ’25
Krislyn Ishibashi ’26
Maile Dunn ’27
Moxie Gatbonton ’25
Nicholas Flores ’26
Tyf Katsuda ’26
Ka Wai Ola seeks to showcase original visual and literary artwork from the Punahou community that displays knowledge of craft and impactful artistic intent. KWO celebrates the artistic gifts and talents of Punahou’s students, offering an authentic space for storytelling, expression, learning, and sharing beyond the classroom.
Would you like to see your art or writing published in the upcoming issue? Check out our website at kawaiola.punahou.edu for information on submitting.
