He was never much good at kissing, my Dad;
expressed emotions limited to warm hands
and ‘well done’s, a lift, a pat. And that was that.
When I married he visited our home: there were
hugs and kisses to mark comings and goings –
for him, a custom observed,
to my Mother, second nature.
Once, he was seriously ill. Sitting with him in hospital
we’d talked and I’d broken through the barrier to
thank him for things he’d done for me, been for me –
in case that was the last chance. I bent to kiss him.
With his usual dis-ease, but with tears in his eyes, he said,
‘I never did work out just where
the noses were supposed to go’.
We smiled about it. At least he didn’t try to hide the tears.
I wondered if Mother was truly kissed in all those years.