Just Holding Hands

It's the nearest comfort for my insecure mind

Photo by Natalia Sobolivska on Unsplash

We headed down the front steps and onto the sidewalk when I noticed myself wondering what we’d talk about, which I found a disconcerting thought to have twenty years into a marriage.

But it was understandable that a re-discovery process for me and my wife would accompany the return of solo time together, since household tasks, professional responsibilities, and the parenting of three children had dominated the landscape of our attention for the last few decades.

Just weeks ago the trees in front of our house were covered in cherry blossoms. They’d all since fallen, the honeymoon of their fragrance passed, but there was still clustered evidence of decaying petals on the ground where they had swirled into piles like pink snow.

Walking side by side, we stepped over the traces of flowers and set off to explore our neighborhood, still new to us after a recent move. Our fingers brushed together and then found their way effortlessly into an embrace, an instance of spontaneous affection suspended between us as we fell in step with one another. Hands have their own intelligence, and ours were navigating the business of connection without seeking permission or direction from either of us.

Wherever we’ve lived, strolling through our local neighborhood has always been one of our favorite activities. I recalled how often we’d done that in silence. We didn’t always need words to connect.

We’ve always been good at walking together. Even though I’m taller, my arms are longer, so our hands still hover at the same height above ground and find each other naturally. My steps are broader, but also slower, so our individual strides add up to well-paired movement.

Why had I been concerned about what we would say?

My wife doesn’t question our relationship. She doesn’t study my movements and expressions when we have a disagreement, assessing for threat, preparing to bolt. She’s loyal, trusting, and low maintenance. My attachment style is more insecure and anxious, requiring more reassurance and approval to maintain the sense that all is good in our world.

When we found out that my son had received an invitation to go out with his older brother and sister for the evening, I casually suggested we have a date, perhaps walk down to the local ice cream shop. I tried to appear relaxed about the offer while tidying up the counter and re-arranging the contents of the fruit bowl, but part of me is always bracing when I make invitations to intimacy. After so many years together, I’m still scanning her facial expressions, pace, mood and tone in these situations—looking for clues and tells about whether she wants to be with me.

But we were walking now, and my hand didn’t share these concerns. It was speaking a simpler language, tapping the root of a deeper trust.

There was an energy passing through her fingers and palm that was deeply reassuring and unquestionable. I felt a warmth you can’t fake, an affection in the way she was holding on to me with just the right amount of pressure, not too much or too little, affirming, yet surrendered at the same time. There was an exchange of mutual adoration going on, hand to hand.

My body relaxed. I remembered this hand.

It was the same hand that wove itself into my grip in the first days of our relationship when she came to one of my older son’s hockey games and we stood shoulder to shoulder in the recreational chaos. The stale odor of old goalie gear, parents shouting at the bad calls of referees, coaches yelling instructions that the kids would never hear—all of it was drowned out by the volume of our electric proximity.

Here we were, twenty years later, strolling and enjoying an easy dance of silence and conversation on route to getting ice cream.

We’ll often talk about houses and restaurants when we walk, sharing which ones strike our fancy. We noted a bistro that was entirely open to the sidewalk with a striped awning and an invitation to seat yourself. Indeed, a buzzing crowd of diners had already done so. We’re likely to try it for a future meal. Later on, the only visible part of a Golden Retriever was wagging its tail like a metronome from beneath a patio table, orchestrating the delight of passing pedestrians. We mused on plans for a summer trip, and shared our fears that we’d interrupt the stride of our cherished routines at home. We stopped to marvel over a towering graffiti mural of a woman on an alley wall, and admired a prodigious display of ivy—wondering if planting some might discourage the weeds around our front gate.

All while holding hands.

Rounding the corner with the ice cream shop in the distance we could see a line up of eager patrons snaking its way down the street. This was an extremely popular spot in the warmer months of the year. Ordinarily I hate standing in lines, which made the joy I felt at the sight of the extended wait notable. Waiting would be transformed into savoring with her hand in mine.

It’s been this way since the beginning for us. We’ve taken nourishment from each other’s simple presence while sitting on the porch, sharing a meal, just being together with our kids. Happiness is truly not a complicated affair, yet so often I’ve made it so by overthinking the process.

We pulled up to the back of the winding queue. I turned toward her kind face, lit by the early evening light, and said, “Walking and holding hands with you is one of my favorite things in the world.”

She searched my eyes for a moment, holding my gaze to make sure I knew she felt the same way. She slid her fingers in opposite directions upward around my arm, weaving them up into a vine-like embrace and then rested her head on my shoulder.

“Me too,” she said.

The girls in front of us took a few steps as the line moved forward, but I was in no rush to fill the empty space.

I was too busy enjoying the message from her hands, that she loves me—and determined to hold onto that thought until the cherry blossoms came round again.