“Last Kiss”
by James CrewsI wondered if anybody would ever love me that much
when I walked into the hospital room and saw my mother
gripping the metal bedrails, eyes ravaged as she smoothed
the gray hair from my father’s forehead. He was dead,lips parted a little as if he’d been taken in mid-breath
or was about to call out the name of something on the tip
of his tongue. When he died, I was at a diner eating
French fries with my lover, who was already in lovewith someone else. There were so many people in the room,
but I remember only my mother in the plastic chair
unable to leave him. Come here, she said, and kiss your father
goodbye. But I couldn’t move. I watched the snow fallingoutside his window, heard the distant chopping propellers
of a helicopter I imagined bearing a cooler-full of organs
other patients were waiting for. My mother waved me over,
and I knew then I couldn’t refuse, though I also knewmy father no longer filled the stiffening body she caressed.
I kissed the creases of his cold forehead, then pulled away
as fast as I could, taking with me the last of his breath.
My first experience of death was my grandfather when I was perhaps seven or eight years old. He died in the house we lived in, while using the toilet in the middle of the night. I remember that someone threw a sheet over him before the paramedics came and stretched him out on the living room carpet, then pronounced him dead. It spooked me for months after to use that bathroom or be on that part of the floor.
Since then, I’ve probably had more experiences with death than most people. As a pastor, I usually accompany people into death at a ripe old age, and those have been tender—even good—experiences. A few have been sudden tragedies involving younger people like my brother, and those are the most challenging. When have you been in the presence of death? What was it like? We have a cultural bias against death and try to remove almost every reference to it if we can. And yet, we’ve learned that death is as natural as life.
Come here and kiss your father goodbye. I’ve learned how crucial physical proximity is in the presence of death. Without it, people can feel less able to fully experience grief, acknowledge loss, and prepare their memories of the one who has died. Perhaps this is why many Christians accompany Jesus closely through these last days of Holy Week. Today, we gather in sanctuaries to hear again the story of his final moments. We remember the women who were with him at the crucifixion and then who touched, caressed, and prepared his body for burial. Through them, we, too, attempt to draw near and acknowledge this unjust and untimely loss, perhaps most fittingly in the silence and gloom of this day.
And yet, I love the way the poem ends: taking with me the last of his breath. If COVID taught us anything, it’s how much we share air with others. We are filled even now with the breath of those who have died, and likewise with their hopes and dreams. If the breath is the same across generations, the legacy of our ancestors—with all their ancient wisdom—lives on within us in mysterious, bodily ways. Perhaps even death itself is not the end.
Dear Oby,
Thank you for these thoughtful insights. "Perhaps even death itself is not the end". I want to apply that to, not only "actual death", but to all the losses and heartaches of everyday life. Perhaps they are not the end. Perhaps there is hope and goodness beyond them. I thank you again for helping me see the wisdom in that.
Easter blessings to you and Javen!
Richard