I met my husband at my house. He came as the guest of a woman I met at a mountain retreat. She and I had connected naturally through our love of running, the outdoors and soul-level conversation during a mean game of ping pong. When she arrived at my pre-Thanksgiving gathering with a fellow, I was mildly surprised. Were they a couple or just friends?
He was attractive—over six feet tall with gray hair, kind eyes, a runner’s body and a chest like an armored tank, under his thin blue sweater. He drank a beer and said little. He was either still water running deep or simply astute enough to let the Type A’s have the floor.
Evening’s end and goodbyes all around found him the last at the door. Should I hug him too or just shake his hand? We stepped toward each other. He dipped slightly and gathered me loosely in his arms. My head unexpectedly came to rest on his chest and I found home.
That hug was the spark that lit our home fire. We were past our mid-fifties. Four months later we threw away fear and committed to each other for the rest of our lives. Our fire burns according to how we tend it. Sometimes it is lively and roars with passion—other times it is a comforting ember.
The days and years pass. Our time together grows less and we know not the hour or circumstance that will separate us. We are not morbid, nor are we afraid of death, but rather determined to stay closely connected while we live. In embrace we remember our completeness so we do if often and long. And when the next life comes to lay claim, we pray it will find us arms entwined and the fire still smoldering.
