Yesterday, our family made a simple trip—just an hour’s drive to Na‘alehu to pick up my daughter from a sleepover. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing we expected would be memorable. On the way, we decided to stop at the famous Punalu‘u Bakery for a quick bite.
As we sat down, the air filled with the gentle strumming of a ukulele and the soft notes of a Hawaiian song. A local musician had begun to play, his music floating through the bakery like a warm breeze. People smiled, some tapped their feet, but most carried on with their food and chatter.
Then, something caught my eye.
From the corner of the room, a frail, elderly couple slowly rose from their seats. Their steps were cautious, but their faces lit up with the kind of joy that only comes from decades of shared life. Hand in hand, they walked toward the small open space near the music and began to dance.
It wasn’t a polished performance or anything dramatic—just two people swaying gently to a melody that seemed to belong to them alone. Their movements were slow, deliberate, almost fragile, yet filled with such tenderness that the whole room seemed to fade away. They looked at each other as if the years melted back, as if they were once again young and falling in love for the first time.
What struck me most was their complete unawareness of anyone watching. The world could have been spinning around them, and it wouldn’t have mattered. In that moment, it was only them—the music, the rhythm, the bond of sixty-six years of marriage holding them together like a sacred thread.
I overheard someone nearby whisper, almost reverently, “They’ve been married for sixty-six years.”
And I just sat there, stunned, my heart swelling with a mix of awe and tenderness. Here were two people who had walked through decades—through joy and hardship, through changes and challenges—and still, they chose to dance.
This morning, as I told the story to my mom, I expected her to simply smile at the sweetness of it all. But instead, she gave me words that landed deeply, words that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
“You’ve gotta dance while you can,” she said softly.
My mom and dad will celebrate fifty years of marriage this year. And in her simple response, she reminded me of something profound: life is fleeting. Our bodies grow older, time moves faster than we realize, and yet, love—real love—can still find its way onto the dance floor, no matter how small or unexpected.
Yes, Mom. Thank you for this reminder.
We can’t always control the length of our days, but we can choose to fill them with moments that matter—with laughter, with gratitude, with love that isn’t afraid to be seen. And sometimes, it means taking someone’s hand and dancing while the music is still playing.
I love you so much.
