Home is Wherever I'm with You

By the time I came along, my parents didn't like one another much anymore. Of this, I am certain.

By my mother's own admission - and trust me, 18-year-old Jane was not quite prepared for the "ew" factor when she was told it - the only reason they stayed married the last 10 years or so of their 20+ year marriage was because the sex was so good.

Take a moment. It's OK to shudder and go ew. I'll wait.

Moving on.

Given the knowledge that they A) didn't particularly care for one another's company and B) my father is, by nature, undemonstrative, it should come as no surprise to find out I have very little recollection of any kind of physical affection between the two.

Except for one, single, solitary memory.

Casper. Late 1970's. The gold and dark brown kitchen of our modular home.

I'd wandered around the corner and spied the two of them lost in an embrace. Not kissing. Just...arms wrapped around one another, supporting each other's weight, sinking into and relaxing in the closeness of an intimate hug.

I have no context for the circumstances behind it. Had they been fighting and in the midst of making up? Were they exhausted from a trial or tribulation and seeking comfort and familiarity in each other's arms? Were they caught in a rare moment of the echo of love for one another? Were they starting to say goodbye?

I don't know.

But it's a standout memory for me. Not because it was a showcase of what love is but because something about that embrace has been etched into my brain as a representation of what emotional intimacy looks like.

Twice this week, with two different men, I've stood wrapped in a similar embrace - both in kitchens - and that memory has come flooding back to me in a rush.

The first, with Lex, in our own Grotto kitchen. A spontaneous display of physical contact - something that's been happening more and more frequently over the last couple of months. The second, with Batman, in his own kitchen by way of greeting one another.

And as the memory came unbidden of my parents' stolen and, until now, believed to be unwitnessed moment, I thought to myself, "This. This must be what home feels like."

You know? It feels pretty good.