I wrote this story a little over a year after my mother passed away.
I had the privilege of looking after her in her home in Holland the final three months of her life.
Mom was the matriarch of our family in the truest meaning of the word. She was strong, she was kind, and she was loving. She showed that love in many different ways, but was not particularly liberal in expressing her affection. She tried, but growing up herself in a household where kisses and hugs were few and far between, it didn’t always come natural for her.
I’ve lived in Canada since 1989 and saw my mother maybe once a year, so when I arrived in Holland—after she had her heart attack—I would give her the occasional random kiss in passing. One day she asked me what the kiss was for. I told her it was a bonus kiss, because I’d missed out on so many over the years.
I did that a lot over the next months; I’d kiss her as I passed by her chair on my way to the kitchen, or when I helped her in or out of bed. Each time I’d whisper “bonus kiss” and she’d smile.
I kissed her often as she was lying in bed in front of the French doors, surrounded by her children for the thirty-two hours it took for her to leave this life.
And when we finally closed her casket—as she had asked us kids to do— I kissed the lid over her head with one last bonus kiss.
It took me a year to begin to process what were both the most difficult, as well as the most treasured months of my life.
It took me two months to write my emotions into words that became “Bonus Kisses.”
Freya