The pig had been a pet to the youngest brother of twelve Hawaiian boys. Ali, and he loved that pig. I was five, and Ali at the time 20, was dating my mother. We had been invited to his family's home for a Luau (Big pig roast) on the Island of Kauai. A giant tin basin stood poised by the spit. There was an unease in the way the pig moved, it knew. I knew it knew, and it knew I knew... It took four men to pick it up squealing and kicking. Plopping it onto its back upon a huge wooden table. My mother tried to cover my eyes, but I wouldn't let her. I darted to the other side to get a better view. The older brothers made Ali kill the pig, because it was in honor of my mother and I. I don't know who looked more frightened, him or the pig? I was frozen by the horror of it all. Yet completely in the moment. Wearing my heart in my throat. The sun was just setting into the Pacific in bright golden red blasts. The blade went up, the blade came down. Moment to moment I recall the shrill even now, to this date, a cry so high and loud as if to god himself... Of that young man with pig. Ali, reaching around in our dinner, in his childhood friend. Looking - - to find, and pull out its heart... It took 30 minutes. Finally, the mother came out with a hammer, and did it right. I got a fried ear later -- out of the deal; that left a bad taste in my mouth like early rain, and nobody to warm up to.