Only recently did I realize it’s been 15 years this month since my mom died. It doesn’t seem possible. Not when she is never far from my thoughts and I look in the mirror and see hints of her knowing smile.

As her health failed, we moved her from her Waikiki condo to live with us on Maui. The kids were small enough that we could bunk them together and set up the larger of our three bedrooms for Tutu, with a view of the lychee tree in the backyard. Three months later she was admitted to the hospital with congestive heart failure. Three weeks after that she was dead.

My brother flew in from California, and we were all at her bedside when she took her last breath. I remember sobbing, “I’ll never forget you, Mom!”

Because her small group of remaining friends was in Honolulu and my brother had to return to his work and family, we didn’t hold a service right away. She was cremated and her ashes placed in a ceramic ipu until we could scatter them in the ocean off her beloved Waikiki. I had the mortuary place a small portion in a musubi-size curly koa urn engraved with her name, the dates of her birth and death, and “Me ke aloha pumehana” (with fondest aloha).

The koa urn was always on prominent display in our home, but the ipu ended up being moved around to various, less conspicuous locations around the house. The plan was to reunite with my brother’s family for her big sendoff in an outrigger canoe.

There were plenty of reasons why that never happened, and Tutu waited.

For a while she sat on the bottom shelf of a planter at the entryway and was greeted with “Hi, Tutu!” whenever we came in the front door. When we moved to Pukalani, she took in the glorious Upcountry sunsets from her perch on the open bookshelf in the front room. Then she did a stint in my closet, where I figured she’d be safe from horseplay and the cat.

Late last summer, in the middle of packing up our house to move to Honolulu, my husband and I had to rush to Oahu for a medical emergency that kept us here for several months.

The kids were left to deal with our belongings, and Tutu was put in storage along with everything else we owned.

With so many other things to worry about, I kind of forgot she was there until we opened the storage unit for the first time in February and discovered the ipu under a quilt. Sorry, Tutu!

She’s now in the living room at my daughter’s place, where she can keep an eye on things until I can get back there next month and bring her home.

Fifteen years gone by, and I figure it’s finally time to let her rest. Her two Maui-born grandchildren are fine canoe paddlers, so we’ve got that covered.

When we take her out, I probably won’t jump into the water for one last embrace because I don’t think I could get back into the boat at this age and in my condition.

But I will certainly offer a heartfelt toast to Tutu — Mom — at the Beach Bar under the banyan tree at the Moana, with fondest aloha.

“She Speaks” is a weekly column by women writers of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. Reach Christie Wilson at cwilson@staradvertiser.com.