The is not the story of our first kiss. I’m not ready to tell that one yet. Instead, this is about every single day of my life with Steve.
He never liked PDA’s (Public Displays of Affection). He was a very private person with everything, except his humor. He shared his humor with the world! Didn’t matter when, where or who was around. If a laugh was to be had, he’d take it. Although I also share my humor with the world (albeit, not a tactfully), I LOVE PDA’s. Steve and I did a workshop on the 5 Love Languages, and the thing that fills my love tank is physical touch; his was filled by acts of service—usually the making of a nice dinner or Boston Cream Pie! For Steve, holding hands in public was as far as he wanted to go, and when he did do more, it usually came off awkwardly.
Even though PDA’s were out, that doesn’t mean that he wasn’t more physical in private. The one thing he did very well, was provide me with plenty of kisses.
Every weekday, when he came in from work, he would find me (usually in the kitchen) and he’d kiss me. He could gauge my mood by my body language during the kiss. He didn’t ask, “What’s wrong?” He would simply pull me into a hug if it seemed my day was bad. And he’d usually kiss me again, until I felt better. Then out the door he’d go to do his evening chores of feeding the chickens and cleaning up dog poo. Every evening.
Every night, after lying in bed talking quietly about important things like what each of us had planned for the next day or sharing a funny story of something that happened that day, he would stretch over, and he’d kiss me. Never, in the 26.5 years of marriage did I have to stretch out my neck toward him or scooch my body closer to him. He would move his body, roll over, or stretch out his neck and he’d kiss me. Every night.
Every time he’d come back from the store, or other small errand, he’d kiss me. He’d search the house until he found me, wherever I was, and he’d kiss me. Didn’t matter if I was in the bedroom, in my craft room, or even in the bathroom! He’d find me and he’d kiss me. Every time.
Every morning, after waking, showering, doing morning chores of feeding the dogs and chickens, and after drinking a swig of Sunny-D, he’d kiss me. If it was a weekend when we were both home, he’d usually plop himself down in Big Brown (our double recliner) right next to me, lean over and he’d kiss me. If it was a weekday and I was still in bed, he’d come back into the bedroom, quietly. If I rolled over, or said, “I’m awake”, he’d come over to my side of the bed, and he’d kiss me. If I didn’t make a sound, he’d lean over, without making a sound, and he’d kiss me. Every morning.
Every time we fought, after the fight was ended, he’d kiss me. To be truthful, we didn’t fight all that much—don’t believe me, ask our kids. We loved to banter, well….he did more than me. We also had small arguments, the kind where you disagree, without raised voices or anger, until one of you concedes to the other’s way of thinking. But the real fights, where voices are loud, passion is high, and cuss words were said, those didn’t happen often. But when they did, afterward, he’d kiss me. Sometimes he’d try to get a kiss before I was ready for forgiveness or apologizing and I’d pull back. But he’d continue returning every few minutes until my temper was cooled (it always took me long to cool off), he’d kiss me. Every time.
Needless to say, every day of my life with Steve, multiple times a day, he’d kiss me.
I miss it.
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