To Have and to Hold

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.