I wonder if, when my life is at its shadowy end and I have the completed manuscript of my life tidily placed before me, this will be the thing I hold the closest to my heart: the feel of my hand in his, the freedom of touching that big, warm hand anytime I like. Of all the experiences of my life, all the touches I was privy to, if this simple, basic touch will be the defining one. This one touch seems to hold in its modest sway all contentment and safety, the physical representation of that for which we all strive. I waited so long for it, too; that probably has something to do with the affection I have for that touch.
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In its own way, the sight of our skin touching, our fingers intertwined, is like a train wreck; I can’t take my eyes off of it. I keep glancing back at this sign to which, after all this time, I still have not become accustomed. My hand practically disappears in his wide grasp. He whispers to me he can feel all the bones of my hand, feel the tiny warmth of my palm against the vast heat of his. He’s always fascinated by the smallness of my hand, the softness of my skin, the delicacy of my wrist. I think he notices our entwined hands almost as much as me.
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It seems to me so fitting, so perfectly and unexpectedly matched, that he should harbor the same fascination with my smallness and delicacy that I feel for his tall frame and strength. I think sometimes that I will never know – when we pick up the same object – precisely how much easier it is for him than me. If I pick up a stuffed suitcase, how is it that I labor under it while he hoists it in the air like Popeye? It intrigues me. Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to have all that strength to spare. And I’m strong for a woman! But I can’t mind. The heat that flares out from my chest when I see another sign of his strength, especially when framed by his gentleness, is too delicious.
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And I can’t help but smile when he shows me that strength just to impress me. It’s too sweet-natured a display to be considered arrogant, too self-deprecating to be defined as showing off. It’s just the same thing I feel when asking him to open a jar or move a piece of furniture when out of necessity I did it myself for thirty years. It’s just so nice to have someone to do it for you, just as I imagine for him, it’s so nice to have someone to be strong for. We both win.
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I go still sometimes with secret delight when I see just how strong he is, so much stronger than me, his strength so much more effortless than my own, and then he takes my hand and I can feel how safe I am from that strength, and how safe I am made by that strength.
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I’ve often thought that while few men can be as fierce as a woman in certain circumstances, when her mate or cub is threatened, nevertheless, it is man’s lot to be the protectors. It’s nice that it is not their exclusive domain, but they are the natives while we women are migrants. I’ve wondered idly what it is in men’s makeup that defines this protective urge and in turn is defined by it. Where precisely does that instinct reside? What part or pathway marks its place?
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Sometimes, I admit, his protectiveness of me chafes. After all, I had been independent for so many years before he came to me. Only my father had shown that protective instinct for me, and I could draw the boundary line with that when I moved out. But this protectiveness is different because I have to negotiate it, grow familiar with it. And, too, I can’t dismiss it when I’m feeling bold and independent as I could do with the protectiveness of others. I am no longer my own. I promised that when I let him slip his ring on my finger. He has a right no one else has ever had, even my father, to set boundaries of his own for me not to cross. It’s one of the sacrifices I took on when I joined my life to his. And I can’t resent him for it on those occasions when the very protectiveness I cherish limits me; I would expect the same heed if he did something I felt truly threatened him, and I asked him not to do it again. He is not his own, either, any more than I am mine.
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It seems to me that as you have what I would consider a real life, and go deeper down its path, you commit to certain obligations which increase in number or intensity as time in that life goes on. You’re free as a bird when you’re trekking, alone, but you’re also alone. Then you commit to one other person and you can still be free and take risks, but you have opened yourself up to certain potential promises. After all, no one wants to open themselves up to someone who may kill themselves with idiocy or carelessness. But essentially, you are still your own person in many ways. And then you have children and you now have something even more needful than each other to keep yourself alive for. And the risks necessarily become tighter and fewer. It’s a necessary loss. Some people let their perspective become clouded by all they gave up when they committed to sharing a life with someone, but I wonder if their unhappiness originates in the imbalance they slowly embrace. Yes, you have to live more carefully and more considerately, but what you get in return is a witness to your whole life. Someone who is making the same sacrifices as you who isn’t complaining about it because they understand they get tenfold what they are laying on the altar of their selfishness. They value their life with you more than all they trade for it. I wonder if maybe sometimes people are so willfully blinded by trees they’ve cut down to make room for the person they love that they miss the vast forest they are planting with them. I don’t know. I can’t say. I only know my own perspective and I waited so long for him that it’s not so impossible for me to balance my perspective when I see his face. Sure, sometimes I have to be more careful than I would like to be, but then I remember it’s because he cares so much for me.
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