The kiss

We were never an outspoken "I love you" family but we had the not-so-perfunctory kiss when leaving and arriving. Those pecks on one cheek for me meant every unspoken word it stood for - Don't worry. I'll take care. Wish me luck on my errand. I'll try not to come home too late. I had a good day. We lost the volleyball game but I saw my crush. I am dreading our piano lesson on Sunday.  I'll do my homework now.

Without the kiss, our outings would have been illegal. It meant we snuck out, you and Papa were already asleep and it was really late. 

I was always more afraid of Papa. With you, I can reason. With Papa, I just walk out and did not come back until he was ready to forgive and I, him. 

I did not dare kiss him during his last days. One time, I was trying to exercise his legs and he kicked, like wanting to shake off my hands, hating the feeling of not being able to move them himself. 

He attempted to throw a pillow at my daughter, mistaking her for me. He never knew what he was up against - his strength weakened, his nimble granddaughter ready to dodge, a hand over his head keeping the pillow steady and heavy so he couldn't move, much less throw it. No one can remember now what irked him. We were too busy trying to keep a straight face. 

You would be unconscious in the hospital a couple of years later. I wanted to kiss you awake, be your prince, my Sleeping Beauty so we can dance out of the hospital like in the fairy tales with you in your defiant red, sequined evening gown. I remember running my hands through the shiny material in your huge sliding closet, a favorite hiding place of your children, and the photos of you in the red dress at a party. Papa would probably just sit back and enjoy his drink, like in the pictures. He was never really much of a dancer. But Papa was gone by that time. 

Almost fifty years together. During his wake, you admired the butterfly on the video tribute for Papa and I kept wondering then if you knew what was going on and whose wake it was. Maybe not remembering saved you from the pain. But is that fair? To you? To Papa? Fucking Alzheimer's. 

I was too afraid to kiss you because it might mean I was prepared to let you go. Some sort of kiss of death. So I did not. Instead, I held your hand. I sang to you with sobs as chorus and I tried to hold on for as long as I can. It's been almost four years. 

One of these days I will be ready to give you a 'flying kiss'. It's an action you taught all the babies. Put your fingers (or hand if a baby is doing it) to the lips, transfer the kiss to the fingers and fling it towards the recipient. I will release it to the universe. Maybe by then, I would not be hurting this much every time I miss you. 

"I am an X in an indeterminate equation. And that X is the rock upon which I stand." - Mario Puzo