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.