I kissed my Dad on the lips. Surprised him.
Saying goodbye this last time, we simply puckered up and planted smooches directly upon one another’s grizzly face like it was normal. Like John Wayne and Humphrey Bogart swapped spit all the time, too.
“Can’t imagine life without your father,” Mom sighed.
“Try,” I told her.
Followed by a long silence.
I told my Mom I liked kissing my Dad.
“Me, too,” she says cheerily. “You know, he’s only told me twice in fifty years he’s loved me. And I had to coerce him both times.” She smiles. “Three times, counting right before he went into surgery.”
The old man couldn’t get away from me. More wires coming out of him than a home entertainment center, less elusive than he once was. Nothing else for my Dad to do but kiss me on the lips.
“No tongues,” I warned.
Mom had brought their wedding portrait to the hospital, trying to goose Dad’s memory. They got married, it was the Christmas weekend, not so many months after the end of WWII, the second war to end all wars. Both of them look eager.
It’s a black and white photograph. A busty virgin, she was young and looked younger, full of promise. She’s wearing a fuzzy suit. Her right breast is covered with a floral corsage. He was the dashing sergeant, a decade her senior, on a three-day furlough with a full head of dark hair, slicked straight back. Dad’s in his dress uniform. His left chest festooned with military decorations.
Fifty years later, they were still holding hands on a stroll along the beach. We had always just assumed he was immortal.
Every time I look at him, I see myself in thirty years. So I go next door, to the visiting room where the O.J. Simpson trial is still on television. A woman, about my own age, is on the phone. Turns out she is comparison shopping for cremations. Apparently, prices have skyrocketed in the last two years since she made arrangements for her stepmom. Now her father’s got two days to live and she’s got a sales meeting coming up.
You won’t believe the difference from one crematory to another.
Her last call is to her doctor’s office. She needs to renew her valium prescription before the weekend.
Just in case.