Hibiscus and Laughter

This is the ninth poem in the All the Ways I Love You series—one poem a day as we count down to my husband’s birthday. Today’s is for Fiji, hibiscus mornings, ruined dresses, and the kind of love that never asks you to be anything other than yourself.

We booked Fiji on a whim.
Not for a honeymoon,
not for a milestone,
just because the day was hard
and we wanted something soft.

That was how far we’d come—
from tight budgets and shared plates
to five-star plans
made from nothing but a shrug and a smile.

Oceanfront suite.
Balcony stretched toward the Pacific.
I greeted the sun each morning
with a good book and bare feet,
hibiscus in the air like perfume from the gods.

And the breakfast buffet—
oh, the fruit.
Passionfruit that made my heart sing.
Papaya kissed by sunlight.
Fijian spice that punished my tongue
because I am, objectively,
too weak for that sort of thing.

Cruises into the blue.
Snorkeling with reef sharks,
tall ships, sails full of wonder.
Somehow we found beach volleyball again—
even on an island ringed in soft silence.
We walked the perimeter,
collecting photos of palm trees and coconut like treasure.

And the suite—
gorgeous.
A dream of cool tile and open sky,
ours for just a little while.

Anniversary dinner.
I wore the dress—
long, flowing, expensive.
Almost a ball gown.
A splurge for the moment.
A gift to the girl I used to be
who always thought she had to earn joy.

I ruined it that first night.
Because of course I did.
Because I am clumsy.
Gross.
Because you can dress me up,
but I will still find a way
to spill something
on silk.

You laughed.
You kissed my forehead.
You looked at me like I was the best thing
you’d ever seen.

And not once—
not once—
did you make me feel like less
for being exactly as I am.

You loved me,
as you always do—
completely.
And in the middle of paradise,
with salt in my hair and shame in my gut,
I remembered that I don’t have to be anyone
but me
to be adored.