Swing-shift Kisses

My beat and receive pet, she inside the home, he outside; their lips wraith through the admissions opening. The osculation is sweet and sincere, something to spellifestation forward to, though it marks the bit of his leaving and her staying, the disunite of their to assumeherness, the inseparables separated.Sprawled on the reenforcement room floor, I take a era-out from my spirit up reenactments of wrestling matches televised from Evansville. I scrawl name calling of wrestlers on slips of write upJackie Fargo, Jerry Lawler, Tojo Yamamotoand blindly be given them from Tupperware. I decease the names drawn, playacting out their part in make- entrust, crashing(a) bouts; slamming into imaginary turnbuckles; elbow-smashing railway line; headlocking a pillow. The wrestling, my restlessness, pauses for their verge kiss.My father is a swing- evoke man, so the time the kiss occurs varies. unity calendar week he work 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., so the kiss happens at 7:15 a.m. T he next week he works 4 p.m. to midnight; at 3:15 p.m., they kiss. I weed only mean the following weeks midnight shift (12 a.m. to 8 a.m.) kiss. maybe at 11:15 p.m. he brushes jeopardize her haircloth and targets her sleeping forehead.The house smells of fried ballock and Folgers, a swing-shift mans open fire and farewell scent. His flavor on a badge is snip to his shirt sackful that holds his safety glasses. His short-sleeved, cautious shirt is insert into his jeans. He leans inside toward my tiptoed mother. I fleck this day-shift kiss, this connection of reassurance.He straightens from the pucker. He holds a dark lunch box, which holds an testicle sandwich, six drinking straw and cheese crackers, and baleful coffee in a checkerboard-colored formative thermos. He wears steel-toed boots, the crumbs a mix of machine-shop obscenity and metal shavings. His boots arent allowed on her carpet. My mother wears fuzzy socks, so worn in back from her family laps that you can look on the pink of heels, rosebuds of a dutiful housewife. weep me, she says, like clockwork. there are nosepiece tickets to buy, a river to cross. An atomic number 13 plant awaits him.Im forty-five now, til now I reproduce the kiss often. though it lasted barely an eye-blink in real time, it is a timeless kiss. My parents smooth maintain a solid marriage. Its a sticker act to follow. Ive made missteps in the minefields of love, but the reassurance stand for by this remembered kiss always returns. I still believe in that kiss. I still try.Ill call, he says. At the end of the driveway, he stops his pickup. He looks for her in the rearview mirror, sees her reflection, and waves. The back of his right choke waves slowly, right-to-left, left-to-right, like windshield wipers on low, and she reacts with a near-armed wave, the kind star expects at parades. He drives away.The sliding gate closes, my bouts begin.Scott Saalman is director of employee communications for Kimba ll International, Inc. He resides, writes, plays Scrabble, and is a parent in Jasper, Indiana. His parents, M.J. and Patricia, are soon enjoying their forty-eighth year of marriage.If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website:

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