I was a flight risk. I had
proved that well enough by then. And I willingly and deliberately said yes to
something, afraid that I might fly. I shouldn’t have. But I’m glad I did.
The thing about a hug is
that it has to be more than just arms to count. But I didn’t know that. I didn’t
know about that moment after initial embrace—that is, if you hold out and suppress
the need to release, the need to push away, to free yourself—there is a moment
of exquisite, formidable surrender. 
I knew about side-arms, and
leg pats. And kisses. I knew all about kisses. Frankly, I knew about all of it.
But not hugs. Not giving in and allowing myself to be held. I didn’t know how
to be held. And I certainly didn’t know that I needed it; I had always held
myself.
It didn’t come as any surprise,
the night he kissed me—and in fact, I did wonder what took him so long to get around to it. But when he did, when we finally got around to kissing, we
laughed. We laughed ourselves right into the next kiss, and then the next one. We
laughed until our cheeks ached. Nothing in the world can compare with the
length and depth and breadth with which we laughed about our affection. And so
we passed an entire night kissing, then laughing at ourselves, and then kissing
and laughing some more. And when the dawn arrived, with all its urgent business
of jobs that needed doing and classes that needed attending, we laughed
ourselves right out the door, with one last kiss—hahahaha-- no, one more—hahaha—last
one. Hahahahaha! And we parted—our
cheeks aching and lips sore—dripping in sublimity.
And I knew he was in it the
day he arrived at the door of my basement apartment with a bag of Banbury Cross
donuts in hand. I told you, he said. I told you, you haven’t lived in Salt Lake
until you’ve had the cinnamon crumb. And before you know it, we were sprinkled
in crumbs on a thrifted vinyl sofa the shape of a kidney bean, talking about
our mothers and our faith and our losses and the holes in our stories that
still needed filling.
And just like that, we were
married. We were married before I had time to tell him I was a flight risk.
Before I could break his heart, or mine. Before I knew I didn’t really know how
to hug.
And I noticed that every
time one of us walked through the door, or across the threshold, or into a room,
he would wrap me up. His arms, heavily draped around my shoulders, pulling me
close until I wrapped my arms comfortably around his midsection. And then I’d give
him a quick squeeze and wriggle free.
Every day. Wrap, squeeze,
wriggle free.
And it took a long time.
Like drops of water forming something weird and beautiful in the depths of dark
caverns. And sometimes it frustrated me. Why does he need to hug me? Why can’t
we just keep kissing and laughing and loving each other in all the other ways
that we do? Why this need to close me all up in embrace?
He never really said a word
about it. And I never said a word. Because I didn’t know I was doing it wrong. That
I’d never learned to hug anyone properly.
Maybe it took years after we
were married. And maybe it came after one little surprise followed another,
until our home was full of noise and laughter and zerberts and ABCs. But one
day, it occurred to me. He came into the kitchen and he pulled me into his arms
and I found myself well-hugged. I wrapped my arms around him, and I didn’t
wriggle, but surrendered.
And that’s when I realized
that I wasn’t just held, I was holding.
20 years later, I find
myself wrapped up in this life he’s built with me. And we still laugh until our
sides ache and kiss with abandon. And we are held.
Thank you, Brigham.
