I Want To Kiss You

A younger Andrew in England - Summer 2005

A younger Andrew in England - Summer 2005

Strange the things that suddenly touch something deep and raw inside.

It distresses me that when Andrew died and we went to see him at the hospital, I was afraid to look at his face.
The doctor assured me that he looked well, but as soon as I walked in the cubicle where he lay, I saw a portion of the upper part of his face, the right side. His feet and the tube coming out of his mouth, hid the rest.

From that small glimpse I could tell that his face was slightly swollen. I dared not get closer. I did not kiss his face. I did not kiss his forehead.
His father kissed him so many times that he thought he had managed to warm his forehead again.

His sister, his younger brother, and even our friends kissed him, but not me.

I hovered around the lower part of his body, I rested my head on his chest, I tried to hold his left hand, but the doctor stopped me: “Better not,” he said. “It’s injured.”
I didn’t think of it at the time, but “So what,” I should said. “He’s dead,isn’t he? It’s not like I can make it worse.”

Strange the thoughts that come and the thoughts that don’t.

Andrew, my love, I want to kiss you.

I want to kiss your forehead.

Please give me another chance.

That unkissed kiss is burning my lips.


2 thoughts on “I Want To Kiss You

  1. My dear friend…you’re such an incredible writer. To me, this is one of your best posts. Thank you for capturing the essense of the grief we experience as survivors.

    It also makes me happy to read about all of the wonderful healing things you are doing…walking, therapy, Casa Om, Bruno…

    There is a tropical almond tree outside my window that lost all of it’s leaves during the winter of Michael’s death. During my months of grief I would look out my window and think I felt just like that tree–empty and lifeless. Then buds began to appear and I watched the process of life return gradually to the tree. It was so spiritually beautiful to watch this gradual restoration process. Every winter since I’ve watched for the tree to lose it’s leaves again but it hasn’t yet. Interesting coincidence that it did that year when I spent so much of my time just sitting and thinking and grieving. Reading your posts this year takes my mind back to remembering this amazing tree and the message of hope it shared with me during a particularly harsh Winter of my life.
    ~ Aloha

    • Oh Kukunaokala… I don’t feel too good right now. I really don’t, when will it end? Yet I know that it does get better, it does get better, and that is the message are trying to spread, and that is why I don’t give up!

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