The Last Kiss
Lydia writes from her home in Ohio. Her dog and cat sometimes like to interject with their opinions. They are taken very seriously as assistants.
She has a degree in Journalism and Promotional Communications, which she earned while writing for The Cauldron and The Stater at Cleveland State University. Her work has also been published through the Cleveland Jewish Publication Company and Crain Communications. The Press Club of Cleveland awarded her First Place in Government and Politics in 2024.
"The Last Kiss"
By Lydia Marie
We were young the first time I realized Carly was special.
It was towards the end of second grade. Lunch had just ended. The back doors of the school were propped open, making way for our class to run to the playground.
Carly and I decided to become friends at the beginning of the year, so we had a rhythm when it came to recess: she would always rush to the swings, and I would follow. There were only two swings and one was already taken, so I pushed her to help get her started. That was okay because I was friends with Carly, not with heights.
"Stop! Stop!" Carly yelled a moment later, as the momentum carried her passed me. Panicked, I grabbed the chain of the swing—the metal was hot and it stung when it pulled my arm back, away from my body. With the swing still viscously swaying, she jumped into the mulch. She began running towards the other side of the playground.
Across the way, another girl sat on the edge where the mulch met the concrete, staring at the ground and pushing a pebble back and forth. I didn't really know much about her. No one did. She was a brand new student and, clearly, she didn't have any friends yet. Carly was running right for her.
"Hi, I'm Carly!" I heard her say excitedly as I caught up to them. "Do you want to swing?"
The girl looked up from the rock in her hand, her eyes quickly moving back and forth between the swing set and Carly. She nodded and said, "I love swings!"
They both ran off, but I stayed at the edge of the playground, until I heard Carly's voice over the other kids laughing and the sounds of their shoes crunching on the mulch. She had stopped halfway there.
"Come push us!" She yelled, smiling and waving me over. I ran to her.
The second time I realized I wanted Carly in my life forever was after we graduated high school. We were the busiest we had ever been.
Carly decided to go to a big time university. It was one dream that never left her. She applied to all the Ivy League schools, and while she wasn't accepted to any of them, she did end up going to Stanford University.
I went to a trade school near its campus. A four-year degree never sounded like the right path for me. But, since I stayed close, Carly and I still spent as much time together as we could.
Between classes one afternoon, she called me. We didn't have any plans that day because it was midterm week and she wanted to make sure she had the time to study.
"You have to come pick me up," she said, foregoing a hello. It sounded rushed, like the words were burning a hole in her throat.
"Hold on, what? Why?" I asked.
"Ugh, we don't have time for this! I'm in front of the arts center." She paused, "Now!"
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," I said, hanging up the phone and heading to grab my keys. I almost tripped putting on my sneakers.
When I pulled up to the front of the arts center, she was already running to the car, holding a fast food burger box in her hands. I leaned over to the passenger side door and pushed it open.
"Here," she said, handing me the box.
There was a hole on top of the box. I looked down into it. A dazed bird sat cradled in a bed of tissues and grass.
"Carly…what is this?"
"A bird." She smiled.
"I see that. Why is it in my car?"
"It has a broken wing."
"No. Nope. Absolutely not. Get it out of my car."
Her smile fell. "I watched it fall out of a tree. Can you please take us to the animal sanctuary?"
I groaned. "That's across town! Don't you have class soon?"
"Yeah, because I'd rather sit in bio than do this." She rolled her eyes, then pointed to the road in front of us. "Just drive."
I began driving us—bird included—across town.
I understood I was in love with Carly one warm morning in June when we were 27.
We had been dating for three months. Our lives became less chaotic once we both graduated, and even though we were working full time, we never sacrificed an opportunity to go out. The simple dates were our favorites—walks in the park, car rides to listen to new music, and trips to the local coffee shop.
The coffee shop was a revolving door of customers—the same people ordering their favorite pick-me-ups and looking for somewhere to just take up space. It made for great people watching, especially during lunch breaks.
"The usual today?" The barista asked the little old lady in front of us.
She nodded, adding, "Iced, please. A warm day calls for a cold drink!"
"That'll be $5.00."
The lady opened her wallet, flipped through its sections, and frowned. The air in the shop changed, and the barista noticed.
"I'm sorry, deary. I'll just get one tomorrow."
Carly heard; I could tell by the look in her eye. As the lady began to turn away, Carly pulled out her wallet and squealed, "Here! I got it."
The lady tried to decline the offer, but Carly fought back, determination in her eyes. I stood back in our spot in line and smiled at her.
Winning the war, Carly turned back around to join me.
"What?" she asked when she saw my face, a laugh on her lips.
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
I smiled until we both had to return to work.
Falling in love with Carly was the easiest thing in the world—finding a seashell on the beach, a flower in a field, a beaded necklace at a Mardi Gras parade.
"This is probably the hardest thing you've been asked to do," the doctor says to me. "It's never easy for anyone, but we really need to know how to move forward."
I look up from my hands. The doctor is trying to be understanding, I tell myself. He's trying to let me know that he gets it, that making this decision is going to tear me apart from the inside, that I'll never be the same again. He's letting me know that he's seen hundreds of people in my position before, that I'm not alone. But none of those people were saying goodbye to Carly.
The room feels small, and it just keeps shrinking. We were going to see the world together. We were supposed to share late nights and early mornings with each other. We were supposed to sit on the porch, tell our stories to our children, grow old together.
I reach forward, grabbing Carly's hand off the bed. It's warm. It's still warm and it doesn't make sense. The sensation is overwhelming. It makes everything real—I have to say goodbye and she's still warm. Blood is still pumping through her veins. The walls are closing in on me.
"Right now?" I can't hear my own voice, not out loud and not in my head. I'm only sure words leave my mouth because I can feel the vibrations in my throat weaving their way around the lump that found a permanent residence there days ago.
It's silent, aside from the mechanical beeping every few seconds. She's with me. At least for these next few moments, I can convince myself she's still with me.
"I'm sorry," the doctor says, and I don't know if he means for pushing the decision or for the fact that I'm here in the first place.
Slowly, my eyes move from Carly's hand to her face. I won't let myself remember her like this—laying in a hospital bed, pale and devoid of the light she once held. The sun isn't shining through the blinds covering the window, but I imagine the beams breaking through anyway and shining on her hair, old red dye making itself known one last time. I imagine Carly's fingers, with nails painted yellow for spring, wrapping around my own. I can hear her voice telling me that she's okay, I can let go.
I raise her hand to my lips and press a kiss to the back of it. I still can't hear my voice, but the lump in my throat leaps out when I say, "Thank you for letting me in your life, for wanting to keep me there. Thank you for being you."
