Your After-Death Kiss

 

Today is El Dia De Los Muertos – Day of the Dead – and the table is set. Your favorite cakes have been baked and the linen is placed just as you like before you left so abruptly. With barely a word. Taking only a last breath with you.

We have been waiting for hours; impatient, the sun has already left. In its place sits the moon we watch through the kitchen window. A knock at the door isn’t heard until after the dinner hour is over and the dishes have grown cold. It is only the neighbor inviting us over for tea. Glancing back at the table where the cakes remain untouched by our hopes to have you back, we declined her kind offer. We believed you were still on your way.

Your granddaughter Kiana asked me at least one hundred times where you were. “Over there,” I said pointing to the stars that had come with the night. Their tiny lights now your home. “Maybe she fell asleep,” guessed Kiana whose auburn hair is just like yours. “Yes, a nap, a very long nap,” we agreed.

“So long she cannot wake up,” Kiana then said, content with her own understanding. I was not. I glared at the darkness outside, now the yard of your new place; at the table where we sat before bowls of thick chicken soup, your favorite, not ours.  I stood up and turned my back. Sleeping or not, you were supposed to be here. Here where the rose petals were strewn to form a circle around the three of us, here where the past and the present would merge on a plate of lace we found after your death in the attic.

The candles we lit for you have burned down to stubs. Now we are without light. “The day is almost over,” I say to Kiana who suddenly squeals “she’s here!” to the passing of a shadow outside. No doubt someone rushing home late from work. 

“No, no. Open the door,” her voice raises itself over mine. The door knob turns easily in her hand, exposing us to a fresh burst of wind that races into the house.

 “A kiss!” your granddaughter shouts; her eyes opened wide with surprise as the chilled air momentarily surrounds my neck and shoulders and then returns to her. Kiana pulls here lips together in a pucker; an offering to you. Then she runs back to the kitchen window. Her heart’s beat so fast.

Not knowing what to say, I follow her. We both lean carefully over the sink and wave at the stars, just in case you could see that far. You always liked looking back over your shoulder.