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Clean Hale Hawaii Reviews from Real Customers
Staging Our Goodbyes
“They’re coming at 8,” David reminds me, as if I could possibly forget. This is our fourth open house in three weeks. Fourth time hiring cleaners to make our home look like nobody actually lives here.
“I know,” I sigh, sipping my coffee on our lanai, trying to memorize the way the morning light filters through our plumeria tree. The same tree we planted when we moved in eight years ago. “I’ve already cleared out the bathroom cabinets.”
Our real estate agent, Maile, insists that empty countertops sell houses. “Buyers need to envision their own stuff here,” she’d explained during our first meeting. “Not your toothbrushes and face creams.”
So every Saturday morning before an open house, we perform this strange ritual of erasing ourselves from our own home. Photos get tucked away. My collection of Hawaiian quilts—the one I’ve built piece by piece from crafters at the Aloha Stadium Swap Meet—gets stored at my sister’s place in Kailua. Even the refrigerator magnets from our trips to Kaua’i and the Big Island have to disappear.
The cleaners arrive right on time. I’ve become fond of them over these past few weeks. They’ve seen me at my most vulnerable, boxing up the physical evidence of our life here while fighting back tears.
“Moving day coming up soon, yeah?” the crew asks gently as they unload their supplies.
“Three weeks,” David answers, his voice tight. He’s taking this harder than me, which surprised us both. He was the one who first suggested we sell—who calculated that with Honolulu’s insane market right now, we could cash out, move to Hilo where his company has an office, and buy twice the house for half the price.
It made perfect sense on paper. It still does. But paper doesn’t account for memories.
While the cleaning crew works their magic, turning our lived-in home into a gleaming showpiece, David and I retreat to Kaimana Beach with our dog, Pono. It’s become our Saturday ritual during this liminal selling period. We grab spam musubis from 7-Eleven and coffee from that little shop on Monsarrat Avenue, and we sit watching tourists discover the joys of Hawaiian waters for the first time.
“Remember when we had our first date here?” David asks, watching a young couple struggling to inflate a massive unicorn float.
“You tried to impress me with your bodysurfing skills and got absolutely pummeled,” I laugh.
“And you pretended you knew how to make poke.”
“Hey! That recipe from YouTube was totally legit.”
“You put mayo in it, Keahi.”
“ONE TIME! I put mayo in it one time!”
These are the moments I’ll miss most about this place. Not just our house with its temperamental kitchen faucet and the bedroom lanai where we can see Diamond Head on clear days, but this—the easy familiarity of our neighborhood. The way the Ko’olau mountains catch the clouds in the afternoon. The older Japanese couple at the end of our street who always give us mountain apples from their tree.
When we return home three hours later, our house no longer feels like ours. It smells like lemons and some floral cleaner I can’t identify. Every surface gleams. The cleaning crew has staged small touches—a vase of orchids on the dining table, folded hand towels in the bathroom, a bowl of perfectly arranged local fruits on the kitchen counter.
“We upgraded you this time,” the crew pointing to the fruit. “Actual papayas and mangoes instead of the fake ones. Buyers coming today seem like they might appreciate authentic local touches.”
Maile arrives just as the cleaners are packing up. She’s all business today, tablet in hand, scrolling through what I assume is information about potential buyers.
“How much do we owe you?” I ask the cleaning crew, pulling out my phone to check our house cleaning cost calculator app that’s been tracking our selling expenses.
“Same as always,” they say. “Although…” they hesitate, looking around our living room with its stunning view of the Honolulu skyline. “We’re going to miss this place too. Four weeks of cleaning it, and I’ve grown attached.”
David and I exchange glances. It’s not just us, then.
“Last minute checks,” Maile announces. “Kitchen counters clear? Bathroom counters clear? Pet evidence hidden? Great. Now scram, you two. No sellers during showings—it makes buyers nervous.”
As we load Pono into the car for another few hours of displacement, a young couple parks across the street. They look about the age we were when we bought this place—hopeful, a little anxious. The woman tilts her head back to take in the plumeria tree.
“That’s a good sign,” David murmurs, following my gaze.
“What is?”
“She noticed the tree first. Not the house. Someone who appreciates plumeria blossoms will water it in the summers.”
Something loosens in my chest at that. Maybe selling isn’t just an ending. Maybe it’s passing along something precious to someone who will value it differently, but just as deeply.
“Ready?” David asks, squeezing my hand.
I nod, even though I’m not. I don’t think you ever really are.
— Keahi and David Mahoe, Honolulu, Hawaii