November 19, 2011 (10:58 pm)
Driving home that night, my mind initially focused on AJ and how I would not let him live with the guilt that had haunted me since my youth. The next morning, he would begin to live the rest of his life realizing that he never had an opportunity to say good-bye. He never got to say, ” I love you,” one last time.
Before I had left to visit her in the hospital, he had given me a kiss to give to her in his absence; he will always remember that I had delivered that kiss to her as promised. He will never know, however, how weak and frail she was that night, or how she was unable to talk or communicate.
Instead, he will remember that when I returned home that night, I immediately walked up to his room and woke him from his sleep and gave him an exaggeratedly large kiss on the cheek:
“Great-Grandma said thank you for her kiss. She says she loves you very much and asked me to give this to you for her.”
She will have given him something that he will have forever, a cherished memory.
It was a kiss to remember.