September 19, Year of the Coral Moon
It feels odd to write now that my hands no longer weave leis for the palace gates or festivals by the sea. They tremble some days, stiff from age, yet when I close my eyes, I still feel the stems between my fingers — pliant bamboo grass, hibiscus soft as a child’s cheek, orchids that carried the weight of both joy and grief.
I was born of three strands, like most Midorin souls. From my mother’s Samoan line I learned to sing while I worked, letting rhythm guide the tying of knots. From my father’s Japanese kin I learned the quiet discipline of arrangement — that every petal has its place, even in imperfection. From my grandmother’s Hawaiian blood I learned to honor the earth itself, to thank the plant before I cut it, to leave an offering of water at the roots.
The nation, in my youth, was not as woven together as it is now. We quarreled, isle to isle. In Hikari Kōzō, I remember protests when the ferries broke down, voices sharp as broken shells. In Moanaola, storms swept away whole gardens; yet we replanted. And in Hinahu, we saw hope in every harvest, even when the soil cracked with drought.
Through all of it, I built with flowers. For weddings, for funerals, for the coronation of Queen Seraphina, when I was still a young apprentice. I remember her smile, steady yet gentle, as I handed her a crown woven not of gold, but of lilies and starfruit blossoms. Later, I made a garland for her daughter, Adriana, when she became our queen. To see her wear it, powder blue against the morning sky — I wept. It was as though my life’s work had circled back, flower to flower, root to root.
We’ve seen hardship. Cyclones. Famines. Even whispers of division in the Lily Legislature. But we’ve also seen the long bloom: the Integration Act binding our isles together, children carrying baskets of woven gifts, the sound of laughter carried across the archipelago.
What has it meant for me, one woman among many? It has meant belonging. That every petal I wove was a prayer — for unity, for resilience, for a country learning to see itself as one bouquet.
Now, when my grandchildren ask me what Midori-Iro is, I tell them this: It is the lei we wear together. No single flower makes it whole. It is us, bound by thread, by memory, by love.
And that, I think, is enough for one life. 
— Keilani Haruno