At 5:43am in late September, the ceiling fan setting can be adjusted. Moved from 3 to 2, as there is the most subtle hint of cooler air mingling with the salted mist that stirs from distant surf. Hawaii’s colder months bring bigger waves to the north shore of the Garden Island. Socks are dug out from the back of dresser drawers. Closed toe shoes become a consideration, but only after wiping down a film of moldy green that has grown on their surface in the moist air, which even a closet cannot buffer against.

On any given day in Autumn, a visitor to this place will most likely only see a land of endless summer, as the sun shines its constant, warming spotlight on the set. But after living through a multitude of this land’s cycled seasons, I see the slightest hints that whisper change. Spy a slant of light that angles lower, more golden hues. Feel grass blades beneath bare soles, just a few degrees cooler than in July.

I long for this shift. Scan the sea for sprays of annual Humpback visitors. Fluff the must from my small stash of sweaters. Start imagining steaming pots of soup.

I ponder windows and doorways. Gateways between. Opened or closed. Locked or unhinged. Passages inviting our own perceptions.