Strawberry Kiss

“No, no, no, Joyce, you’re telling it wrong.”

Joyce shot my grandfather that familiar exasperated look in response, and they continued to bicker, as usual, about when they first met.

They loved to tell the story, and loved to argue about it even more. I knew it off by heart, but I never got tired of hearing it.

“Henry, the first time was New Year’s."

My grandmother Joyce always swore she first saw him at a New Year’s Eve party the year she’d turned eighteen.

“This Goliath of a man asked me to dance,” she’d say, eyes wide, “I felt so tiny standing next to him despite my high heels. I thought we’d look ridiculous dancing together, so I said no.”

It was true; they were an odd match height-wise. My grandfather, Henry, was just shy of two metres tall, with broad shoulders, while she was cute and petite, like a pixie.

“I already knew she was the love of my life and wasn’t about to give up that easily,” my grandfather would say, explaining how he’d intercepted any man who tried to speak to her, until she finally gave in and danced with him.

“One dance was all it took for me to win her over.” He was right, they were married six months later.

My grandfather’s version of their meet-cute was vastly different, however—he claimed it happened at an ice cream parlour a couple of months before that.

“I remember clear as day,” he would say, with the same faraway look in his eyes, like he was being transported back in time. “We were strangers, standing in the queue for ice cream, and your grandmother caught my eye with her bright pink lipstick and stiletto heels…”

I don’t recall ever seeing my grandmother without her trademark lipstick, even at seventy.

“…When she asked the man serving if she could taste a flavour called ‘strawberry kiss’, I leaned over to her and said I’d also love a strawberry kiss…”

“Don’t listen to your grandfather’s nonsense.” She’d interrupt, shushing him. “I would never fall for something so cheesy.” But the flush in her cheeks said otherwise.

He’d end the story with his favourite line, “We shared an ice cream in the corner booth, and, hidden behind our menus, your grandmother gave me a real strawberry kiss,” then came the wink and wide, boyish grin.

I never got why she denied it so fiercely, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because they’d shared more than ice cream and a kiss. I was especially suspicious once I’d done the math on when my mother was born, and took into account how quickly they got married.

In any case, one thing was clear to me: they were meant for each other. Aside from their physical differences, in every other way, they were a perfect match. The love they had for each other was aspirational. The kind that most people spend their entire lives dreaming of.

It’s a shame that true love isn’t something you can inherit—like eye colour or dimples. They certainly didn’t pass it down to my mother, who could barely tolerate my father. I, on the other hand, may still have a chance, but they don’t seem to make men like my grandfather anymore.

Despite his intimidating size, Henry was a gentleman in every sense of the word. Not the kind who opens doors and lends his jacket just for show, the real kind, who’s respectful to anyone, no matter their status, and with a heart so soft, I never once saw him raise his voice in anger.

But the best thing about him? He gave the world’s greatest hugs. He’d gather me into his big bear arms, and I’d nestle in, like a little bird, safe and protected. No matter how old I got, he’d hold me until all my troubles melted away—from a grazed knee to boy trouble—there was nothing his hugs couldn’t fix.

Then, as life usually goes, he got sick, followed by the dreaded diagnosis.

“The Big C, luv—not for sissies,” he’d say, with a smile that was meant to disguise his pain. In our family, we avoided saying the word. Like Voldemort—if you said it out loud, it could give the disease more power.

I’d never been especially religious, but every night I’d pray, beg and barter for more time with him. He was only seventy-two; there was still so much he needed to be around for. Who was going to teach me the waltz for my wedding day? And the idea of my future children never meeting him was unfathomable.

Despite all my praying, I had to watch him wilt and wither away. No longer a Goliath, no more bear hugs—just bare bones.

How could life be so unfair? Why him?

“Maybe he’s needed up there,” my gran would say, pointing up at the sky. “Maybe they’re running low on angels.”

She had mastered the art of fake smiles, refusing to let him see her cry. She wanted to be strong for him, but I worried that she was in danger of drowning in her uncried tears.

The day we were called in to say our goodbyes, he drifted in and out of consciousness. There was so much I wanted to tell him, but in the end, all I managed between sobs was how much I loved him.

When it was my grandmother’s turn to whisper her farewells in his ear, his eyes opened wide at the sound of her voice. For a moment, his blue eyes were bright and clear again, and he managed a weak smile.

“Joyce,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Yes, my love?”

“Remember the day we met?”

She clasped his limp hand into hers, knuckles going white. “Oh, Henry. Of course, I remember, you silly fool! How could I ever forget that sweet strawberry kiss?" The tears that she’d been keeping locked in finally escaped, one by one, down her face as she stroked his hair and kissed him, her lipstick imprinting on his pale skin.

That night, Henry the gentle giant, my beloved grandfather, passed away in his sleep, smiling peacefully, her pink lips still tattooed on his cheek—a last strawberry kiss.