I hug him. The minute I do, I realize that I don’t do it often enough. I check my email way more than I hug my husband. I check my texts probably three times more than I kiss him. This doesn’t mean that I’m going to change any time soon. Change takes place slowly. It’s like drip irrigation. A little bit at a time over a long time, and that’s if you’re lucky.
Holding him in my
arms feels different for some reason. It’s like he’s broken and I can feel
every jagged piece, like they’re pressing against my skin, threatening
puncture. Unlike me, Rob doesn’t vocalize every twist and turn of his emotions,
each step of the way, every footfall. That’s why it’s hard to know that
something is inside, that there are feelings, that he’s suffering. You rarely
know how hard something is with him. You only know his steadiness in the face
of – everything.
That’s why I value
this hug. It makes me feel less alone in my own silliness and sorrow. It helps
me to know that someone else shares my feelings, at least part of the time. No
one shares them all the time. That’s just damn impossible. Like when I feel so bifurcated
– needing to be alone, then lonely when I am. Things like that.
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