A kiss from death

trigger warning: talk of death

On the eve of his 90th birthday, the old man sits in his recliner by the door. The television illuminates his small living space as he flicks on his favorite show, and the scent of pot roast drifts in from the kitchen. He lets out a loud sigh as he nestles himself into a more comfortable position in his chair, a permanent indent now formed in his shape on the padding.

Despite the voices on the TV filling the room, the old man can’t quite remember the last time he heard laughter and happiness echoing amongst these walls. And when the day ends, and he lies in bed at night, he often prays that his dreams would take him elsewhere. Take him to a place where that laughter lives, with his wife and children, and where his body no longer aches.

Death had come in the night to kiss his wife. Her absence now leaving a permanent hollowness in his chest. The old man breathed deeply as his body suddenly became too hot. Too much for him to bear. His thoughts wandered away from him, landing upon the if’s and whens. When death herself would finally come to take him, too.

His whole life, he’s run from her. First, when she came to him in childhood, then once again during the war. Since then, his fear has only grown, and he often finds himself wondering about what will greet him in the afterlife.

With a pull of the lever on the side of his chair, the old man stands, making his way to the kitchen. His stomach grumbles loudly, as he collects a bowl from his cupboard and begins to serve his food. Just before he’s able to sit back down, he hears a loud knock. He stills. Wearily, he sets his bowl down and makes his way to the front door. With a turn of the knob, he slowly creaks the door open, revealing a beautiful young woman standing on his porch step.

“Good evening, Sir, I just moved in down the street and figured I’d introduce myself to the neighbors,” she says, as a large smile spreads across her lips.

“Oh, and also, I brought you this.” Her arms raise, displaying a large cake pan sitting atop her hands.

“I hoped this would break the ice, but now that I think of it … I didn’t even think of any potential allergies.” She says, looking towards the floor, her cheeks now displaying a tint of rose.

The old man stares at the young woman for a moment. Not because he doesn’t appreciate the gesture, but because he doesn’t quite know how to respond to her.

“Oh... uh, wow. Thank you. I um … haven’t had anyone do this before.. But it’s very nice to meet you.”

The young woman stares at the man for a second. Her eyes glistening slightly as she looks at him with such gentleness.

“Oh, it’s no problem at all.. Here,” she extends her arms, handing the cake to him, “It’s strawberry shortcake.”

The old man grabs the bottom of the cake, holding it close to his chest. “ Oh wow. What a coincidence, that's actually my favorite.” his chest swells with warmth. “Although … I am unsure of how to repay you for this … how about … Have you had dinner yet? I have a fresh pot of pot roast on the stove and was just about to eat if you’d like to join me”. He says, his words tumbling out a lot faster than he hoped.

Her eyes gleam. “That would be lovely, thank you so much.” The old man steps aside, letting the woman step through the threshold of his door and into the living room.

“Wow, your house is so cozy. And oh my goodness, that pot roast smells to die for.” She says as she walks to the table in the dining room.

The old man follows behind, but instead, heads into the kitchen to set down the cake and grab another bowl. “I can’t take all the credit for that. I’ve kept everything decorated the same way my wife had it. Even the pot roast recipe is hers.” A small chuckle escapes his lips. “She sure knew how to make this place feel homey. But of course, it was really her that truly felt like home.” he says, as a wavering smile crosses his face.

“Well, she sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“She was.” An air of sadness lingers before the old man walks from the kitchen, bowl in hand, and takes a seat across from the woman.

Silence settles among them for a moment or two before the young woman finally clears her throat, “Is that a picture of you two? She says, pointing to the small credenza where the easel-back frame sits. The man turns to look behind him, noticing the frame that sits beside many others, along with a record player that they frequently danced to. “Ah, yes. That was us at the dance hall, the day before I left for the war.”

“You lost a lot of men then.” she says, gently placing her hand atop his on the table.

The old man pauses. As he slowly turns away from the credenza, meeting her gaze. Deep lines burrow between his eyebrows, while he scans the woman's face. Her features are absolutely divine, like no other beauty he has ever seen in this life time. The essence of her being radiates serene calmness, which almost seems to reach out to the man, before wrapping itself around him. His body finally eases as he stares into her midnight eyes, and a sense of familiarity washes over him. As though she herself was the starlight and night sky that lulled him to sleep as a boy. Then, suddenly, a tender voice, not louder than a whisper, coaxes him to trust her. And so he does.

The old man spoke to the woman, as though she were a friend he’d always known. Like the current of the sea, his words flow from his mouth. Telling her the tales of his childhood and his first love, and the stories of meeting his wife, and the birth of his children. And while he spoke, tears dripped down his cheeks, before flowing into his tender smile. And when the memories of sorrow came, when his sobs had him shaking, he allowed himself to feel it. The ebbing and flowing. The happiness, the anger, the anguish. All of it. Sobs escaped his lips until he breathed deeply, in and out, letting the tears soak into his skin. Then, once he was finished, the old man closed his eyes before bringing a hand to his heart, as he thanked his tired and weathered body for braving the storm with him.

A hushed calm envelopes the room. The only sound a distant ticking of a clock, as the old man stares at the young woman, his sobs now held at bay, and his chest rising and falling in a smooth motion. Suddenly, the record player behind him starts to play. Recognition flares in his eyes as he lets the comforting tune wrap around him.

“You’re familiar with this song, aren’t you?” she says expectantly. As though she herself can see directly into his soul, already having every answer to every question.

He blinks slowly. “Yes, it was the song we danced to that night. The night the picture was taken.” A tear escapes down his cheek, before he quickly wipes it away. “ It’s called Come Softly to Me… My wife's favorite. Anytime this song came on, she always made us stop and dance… no matter where we were.” A wide smile spreads across his lips, as his eyes drift to the side. Almost as though he can see them dancing again, right there in the living room.

The woman stands up from her seat, and walks around the table to stand in front of the old man. “ Well… In honor of her, would you do me the honor and join me for this dance?” she says, her voice like liquid velvet as she extends an outstretched hand. He contemplates for a moment before slowly standing up and accepting her offer.

The song plays softly as they slow dance together, both in step with the tune of the music. The old man lets out a long shaky breath, as his shoulder begin to slacken, then finally, he looks into the young woman’s eyes once more. This time, he finally knows why she feels so familiar.

“ It was beautiful, wasn’t it?” Says the woman, looking up at him.

“It was.” he says, before closing his eyes and bowing his head.

Then, gently, the woman brushes her lips atop his forehead. Her kiss immediately releasing all fears, all sadness, all worry, before finally leaving him with peace