A while back I was talking to a friend who had recently gone through a rough break-up with her significant other. While our stories are not the same, we both found ourselves unexpectedly partnerless and agreed on the sucky-ness of that. (I’m not sure that’s a word but I’m totally using it anyway.)
In that conversation, she brought up just how much she misses being held. I couldn’t agree more. Vance’s primary love language was physical touch, so there was rarely a day when he wasn’t holding my hand, snuggling into me on the bed, or (to the utter embarrassment of my children) grabbing my butt in the kitchen.
Not too long before he died, we were in the kitchen, him standing behind me, with his arms wrapped around me, while I was fixing dinner. One of the kids told us to, “Get a room!”
Vance’s reply, “I got a room! Boy, I got an entire house!”
I laughed so loud. The kids just groaned and mumbled something about not needing to see that from their parents.
Sometimes the constant need for physical affection drove me crazy. My love languages are acts of service and quality time. Physical touch is pretty far down the line for me. But over the years I came to expect it.
And now I miss it. I miss secretly grinning when he would sneak up behind me and kiss my neck. I often swatted him away, as I was almost always in the middle of some project. But now, now I’d gladly give up any project for just a hug.
I long to be held. Not just by anybody, though. I long for Vance’s arms. The ones that knew every curve and every flaw and still reached for me.