Kisses

Kaleb Wachala

The grandfather clock in the living room
tells us it‟s getting late.
Nine o‟ clock, time for bed.
This is one rule we cannot break.

So my sister came over to me in her nightgown painted white. “I will not go to sleep until you kiss me goodnight.”
She knew I didn‟t like kisses, but yet, she still tried. She always had that big, huge smile, and those beautiful, bright, brown eyes.

“Kiss me like the butterflies,” my sister said to me. “Let our eyelashes touch each other like their wings touch their wings.”
“Kiss me like the Eskimos who live in the houses of snow. Rub, rub, back and forth, please kiss me with your nose.”

“Kiss me like the birdies do. Go TWEET, TWEET and sing a song. Then peck me on my little ear, just a fast one, it‟s not too long.”
“Kiss me like the doggy does, and lick my face like this.” With my nose wet and slobbery I said, “But I don‟t want a kiss...”

Her face was soft and sad now. She didn‟t say a word. For I know she wouldn‟t be so upset if I had just kissed her like a bird.
She walked down the hall to her room, Teddy dragging on the floor. But I followed my sister close behind and waited outside her door.

I turned the knob slowly, trying not to make a sound. I poked my head inside her room, and made sure no one was around.
In her bed she lie, snuggled in blankets, so tight. There were stains on her pillow from tears she‟d cried, because I wouldn‟t kiss her tonight.

I carefully crept beside my sister to watch her as she sleeps, and a smile came across my face as my lips touched her cheek.
“I will not kiss you like a puppy or a butterfly born in May, but instead, I will wait „til your eyes close tight so I can kiss you my way.”