Kiss Of
Gratitude
This dying old
man couldn’t speak, he had no voice, no words. With difficulty, a lot of
effort, he raised himself and kissed her. He was so grateful, she even wasn’t his
wife. He was so happy and had prayed, thanked God for sending her to him
before. “You change my
life” he said to her.
He had invited her to share his lodging about a year ago. He was so old. They did not sleep together.
He had invited her to share his lodging about a year ago. He was so old. They did not sleep together.
On his sickbed
he cried, he, who was so tall and strong
before, as though a little child seeking comfort with its mother. He felt so
miserable, helpless – he had cancer - and even wasn’t ashamed of her who was so
small, so feeble. “I need you” he said to her, “nothing else” as she, a young
woman of the East, wetting his dried lips, silently, lovingly nursed him, an
old, sick man of the West, perhaps even more than a married wife would do for
her husband.
”She’s my
wife”, he said, testified in the hospital to his friends.
Yet when he
died, she was relieved, felt so happy that he was freed of his anxiety,
torture, cancer, death agony, more than her sadness of missing him.
Are those that
aren’t married less happy than those who are?
October 2011
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