My mother's last kiss Mrs. E. Oakes Smith

I was but five years old when my mother died; but her image is as fresh in my mind, now that twenty years have elapsed, as it was at the time of her death. I remember her, as a pale, gentle being, with a sweet smile, and a voice soft and sweet when she praised me; and when I erred, (for I was a wild, thoughtless child,) there was a mild tender earnestness in her reproofs, that always went to my little heart.

Methinks I can see her large, blue eyes moist with sorrow because of my childish waywardness, and hear her repeat: "My child, how can you grieve me so?" She had, for a long time, been pale and feeble, and sometimes there would come a bright spot on her cheek, which made her look so lovely, I thought she must be well. But then she spoke of dying, and pressed me to her bosom, and told me to be good when she was gone, and to love my father, and to be kind to him; for he would have no one else to love him.

I recollect she was ill all day, and my little hobby horse and whip were laid aside, and I tried to be quiet. I did not see her for a whole day, and it seemed very long. At night, they told me my mother was too sick to kiss me, as she always had done before she went to bed, and I must go without it. But I could not. I stole into the room, and placing my lips close to hers, whispered "Mother, dear mother, Won't you kiss me?"

Her lips were very cold, and when she put her hand upon my cheek, and laid my head on her bosom, I felt a cold shuddering pass all through me. My father carried me from the room, but he could not speak. After they put me in bed, I lay a long while thinking; I feared my mother would, indeed, die; for her cheek felt cold, as my little sister's did as she died, and they carried her little body away where I never saw it again. But I soon fell asleep.

In the morning I rushed to my mother's room, with a strange dread of evil come upon me. It was just as I feared. A white linen covered her straight, cold form. I removed it from her face; her eyes were closed, and her cheeks were cold and hard. But my mother's dear, dear smile was there, or my heart would have broken.

In an instant, all the little faults, for which she had so often reproved me, rushed upon my mind. I longed to tell her how good I would always be, if she would but stay with me. I longed to tell her how, in all time to come, her words would be a law to me. I would be all that she had wished me to be.

I was a passionate, headstrong boy; and never did this frame of temper come to me, but I seemed to see her mild, tearful eyes full upon me, just as she used to look in life; and when I strove for the mastery over my passions, her smile seemed to cheer my heart, and I was happy.

My whole character underwent a change, even from the moment of her death. Her spirit seemed to be always with me, to aid the good and root out the evil that was in me. I felt it would grieve her gentle spirit to see me err, and I could not, would not, do so.

I was a child of her affection. I knew she had prayed and wept over me; and that even on the threshold of her grave, her anxiety for my welfare had caused her spirit to linger, that she might pray once more for me. I never forgot my mother's last kiss. It was with me in sorrow; it was with me in joy; it was with me in moments of evil, like a perpetual good.


This story is the one I studied in the English Class during my middle school days, which moved me far more than it had done at that time. It also made me remember my dear late mother. I also made my prayers thinking about her.