Love in Lahaina

I never lived in Lahaina, but I always loved Lahaina. I have lots of childhood memories of Maui, of time spent with my Auntie Brenda and cousin ​Brandie, of the juicy mangoes from my cousin Wendy’s tree and of riding the sugarcane train with my grandparents.

My Grandpa Ken was a Lahaina boy, and my mother and her siblings spent their summers at Great-Grandma Wong’s Fleming Road property. During visits, we’d walk down Front Street and my mom would point out the Quiksilver shop, the long-ago home of Wong’s Ki Sing Lung Store, which sold general goods and the occasional homemade fudge.

This was the Lahaina I knew, before August 2023. The fires hit right before my senior year of college in Boston, so I never saw the charred structures and melted cars. I didn’t suit up and sift through the ashes of my cousins’ homes. I wasn’t there to understand the true magnitude of the destruction.

I finally returned to Lahaina on July 28, a little more than a week ago. Grandpa Ken had gone on a recent bus tour through Lahaina with Wendy and my Auntie Deanna. “All the landmarks are gone,” he said. “The only thing I could recognize was the seawall.”

Driving along the Lahaina Bypass, I looked out to see the memorial decorated with pictures of those lost in the wildfires. The words “Lahaina Strong” are painted on walls all throughout town and in the Lahaina Gateway area and printed​ on the shirts of people passing by. While such messages won’t rebuild the town, they offer a sense of community and support—reminding residents that they have each other to lean on.

Before we headed to our family’s properties, I got to see Brandie. A year ago, my Auntie Brenda passed, and three days after we gathered for her funeral, the fires took everything else from Brandie. I hugged her and held on tight.

I had written about Lahaina and the destruction for ​my school newspaper’s semesterly magazine. I sent my cousins copies, and as I held Brandie, she whispered how moved she is by my words every time she reads my story.​

As we drove to Brandie’s ‘Ali‘o Street property, my mother warned us how different it would be. Since the fires, I had only seen photos. Now, there I was, standing on the gravel with a clear view of the ocean, one that before the fires had always been blocked by homes. Along the fence was a tarp covering the few salvaged mementos from the house. I grabbed one of Aunt​ie​ Brenda’s ceramic dishes and a green glass cup and saucer.

There’s a crown flower tree on the property. Amid the barren land, the tree had sprouted flowers, and my sister carefully picked some to make a lei for my Grandma Jean. Before heading to Kahului Airport, we stopped by my great-grandparents’ and Uncle Ronnie’s graves and left the lei and a bouquet. There were already flowers in the vases; someone had visited them recently.

It was a bittersweet day in Lahaina. The town is gone, and sadness permeates everything. But there’s also an overwhelming sense of love. That part of Lahaina, at least, lives on.​​​​​​

More coverage of Maui a year later