One tightly wound ta’ovala
Woven by my grandmother’s mother’s
Hands
Wrapped in a black plastic garbage bag
For safe-keeping
Pressed between king mattress and box spring
The ta’ovala only escapes confinement
On notable occasions
Weddings, births, and deaths
I wore it at my ma’u tohi
High and tight
To my center
4 generations deep
This
Is
What
My grandmother carried
As she traversed the Pacific
As she left the land of her inheritance
It must’ve lined
The edges of her luggage
Flat
Inconspicuous
Hidden beneath a few pieces
Of clothing
A couple of black and white photographs
And the belief that the journey was worth
The sacrifice
I see the ta’ovala as
Knowledge of the toil
Of soil
Of women
In sync
In communion
An unbroken line of master weavers
Home builders
Sail makers
Costume designers
Artists
Whose clay-stained
Fingertips
Ripping
Pounding
Weaving
Paper thin strips
Up and over
Up and over
Up and over
Into rectangular
Portable plots of land
Transferable
To America
A reminder
Tied high and tight
To our centers
Of
Knowledge
Of the land left behind
This ta’ovala
Came from Niuafo’ou
Escaped a volcano eruption
Re-settled in ‘Eua
Immigrated to O’ahu
Migrated to Utah
And is still alive
Two hundred thousand visions and dreams
Carried across an ocean;
A continent
Settled between two mountains
In a valley
West of the river Jordan
In a small house with a pink porch
Where I find a tightly wound
Ta’ovala
4 generations strong
Is unraveled
On the front lawn
Brought out to breathe