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He can still recall the first time he held him. Eyes so brown he could see the generations reaching back beyond his family’s memory. A heritage so rich, so timeless its eternity is as vast as the universe. He holds him close and feels his tiny heart pulsing beneath the wraps and smells his sweet breath, an aroma so rich he can taste the earth and all the stars and moons that have ever existed.
He smells his hair and is transported back to the night of passion on which he was conceived. He can smell the sweat and love and feels a sensuality that catches him off guard. He wonders if a son will ever understand the power he has over his father. He watches the small eyelids flutter and feels a sigh from the small lungs. His son sleeps, innocent and peacefully oblivious to the world. He knows the rhythm of his sleep and knows there is a god. He kisses his cheek then his brow before he puts him down. One last kiss and he will go.
Years pass and he sees in his son the hope of the future. He watches him develop new skills, takes joy in each moment of growth and prays for him every day. He shares the triumphs and defeats. He enjoys the boy his baby has become.
The boy is strong of body and mind. He is amazed that he could father such a being. The baby photo he carries in his wallet comes out in his quiet times. Worn and frayed around the edges, the image is his remembrance of his own youth and vigour now fading with age. The boy and his father take walks. They wander through markets with all their noise and colour. He introduces him to food of all kinds and shows him how to bargain. He takes him to his favourite places in the wilderness and from father to son the skills of survival are passed on. Above all, whether in the market or the wilderness, he teaches his son to respect all of creation.
From his father the boy learns how study and play, how to love and forgive and how to carry himself. He is tall and strong now, not so much a boy any longer, rather a young man. From the sidelines his father is proud of his son. He is certainly the most handsome, the fastest and the most agile on the field.
The time comes when all sons must move on from the family home. His father only hopes he has made the right choices. Has he schooled him well enough to cope with the world out there? Has he done enough to teach him discernment and courage? Has he demonstrated compassion, patience and tolerance? Only time will tell. One last embrace. One more smell of his hair. One more kiss and he will go.
Visits home are celebrations and times for feasts and rowdy play. Younger siblings gather round to find out what their big brother has been up to. Where have you been? What did you see? How long will you stay? The innocence of youth asks only those questions that illicit answers to satisfy its own needs.
A father asks harder questions. When the young ones are in their beds and the women have moved inside a father and son sit and talk. In his fatigues his son sits and proudly recounts the training and drills. He talks of the places he has been and the fear and the noise and the relief that he came away unscathed. His father sits and listens and watches intently as this man talks of a war far from this house. His house. They sit and talk and smoke into the small hours. Too soon their time is over. One last embrace. One more smell of his hair. One more kiss and he will go.
The news comes far too soon. The phone call is permanently burned into his memory. An engagement. Out numbered. Too few heavy arms. Vehicle breaks down. Trapped. Explosions. Life threatening injuries. Transported back to local hospital. So sorry.
He looks into those brown eyes and still sees the universe. After he baths him and dries him he can still smell the earth and the passion that created him. He can feel the pulse in his wrist as he holds his hand and he speaks softly into his unhearing ears. He sees his boy’s eyes moving behind the lids and wonders what demons, or perhaps angels, are pursuing him now. One last embrace. One more smell of his hair. One more kiss and he will go.
Time passes and the strong body atrophies. The fingers curl around an invisible handle. The elbows stiffen and the feet turn inward. His skin deteriorates and loses its sheen. His intestines no longer do their work and his kidneys fail. The star shaped scar just above and behind his left ear protrudes like a burl on a cedar. The only imperfection he was not born with.
The picture taken 23 years ago is even more worn these days. He feels like the war has reached into his pocket and stolen the only real currency he knew; the love of his son. Two years of caring. His son is now more demanding than he was when the photo was taken. His tears come warm and often yet his son neither sees, hears or feels his sorrow.
What is it that drives men to declare war? What is it that convinces young men to fight for what is not theirs and never will be? Why is it that the young suffer the most? Why is it that fathers must lose their sons on the whim of the powerful? Eternal questions never answered by a world too consumed by materialism to care.
He sits quietly and watches. He can see the rib bones moving rhythmically beneath the sagging, paper thin skin. He slips into sleep and dreams of the market, the wilderness, the soccer, the times together talking. He dreams of a past that seems like yesterday but feels like forever. He jerks awake and back to reality. One last embrace. One more smell of his hair. One more kiss and he will go.
His son sleeps. He knows it is sleep because even though his deformed and broken body is not the smooth, soft, sweet smelling one of his youth, his sleep breathing pattern has not changed since he was baby. He watches him and cries. He cries not for what is but what could have been. He cries not alone but in concert with the millions of other fathers whose sons have died for greedy leaders. He cries for his son and his son’s dreams. He takes a spare pillow and with 600 grams of foam does what eight grams of lead could not. There is no struggle. No cry, not even a whimper. Did the son know that peace, like love would come from the hand of his father? Did the father know what his role would be in his son’s entry into eternity?
Death takes many things and the first thing the father noticed was the smell. The sweetness was gone. The flame of timelessness in his son’s eyes is extinguished too. He utters a prayer to his god. He feels like he is drowning in his sorrow. He takes the baby picture from the side table and places it in his wallet. He kisses his cheek, then his brow and then he says goodbye. One last kiss and he is gone.
For the fathers of warrior sons everywhere.
Do not listen to the powerful men who do not listen to you.
Inspired by Ray’s song (One Last Kiss from “Keep Left” by Grand Junction).