I miss intimacy.

Not the kind that people immediately think of when they hear the word intimacy. They think passion, closeness, skin-to-skin moments. Those things can be beautiful, of course, but they are only a bonus.

The intimacy I miss is quieter than that. It is found in the ordinary moments that go unnoticed while they are happening, yet somehow become the very fibers that make a marriage strong.

The Rituals That Begin a Day

It is brushing your teeth beside each other for 32 years, elbow to elbow, as you begin another day together. Dogs and kids underfoot, never to break the rhythm.

It is knowing the small sounds of someone’s routine so well that they become part of life’s soundtrack. It’s me listening to the sound of your razor tapping the sink twice after each smooth curve of your face meeting the blade. The way you held your neck taught you not to cut or nick your skin. Such a small thing. Such an ordinary act.  But now, it is one of the things I would give anything to hear again.

That is intimacy: the familiarity of a life shared so completely that even silence and routine carry meaning.

Being Seen Without Self-Consciousness

It is you watching me shave my legs every morning while listening to me sing, extremely, extremely off-key.

It is getting dressed without thinking about being naked in front of someone. Not because it no longer matters, but because it isn’t something you need to think about. It becomes a part of the overall dance of marriage.

You sit side by side on the bed, putting on pants, socks, whatever is on the outfit agenda for the day. You tie the back of my shirt. I straighten your tie with a kiss. You help put my favorite bracelet on because I cannot manage with one hand.

There is safety in that kind of love. There is comfort in being fully seen and exposed yet still fully loved. You do not perform for each other; these random acts. You simply exist together.

The Familiar Touch of Everyday  Life

Intimacy happens on a long drive.

Your hand rests on the gear shift, and mine naturally covers it. We sit like that while the radio plays, and we talk about whatever comes to mind. Sometimes I would listen to you sing.

It happens on a walk too.

Intimacy happens when we are taking a walk. You turn me around so that you are walking outside, closer to the traffic, a totally gentlemanly thing to do. I am on the inside,  our hands always joined, walking at an effortless pace and conversation. Catching the eyes of friends and neighbors as they pass by, beep their horns, and wave.

That is what I miss: love that did not need to announce itself. Love that showed up in instinctive ways, in the quiet protection of a hand resting in mine as we walked beside each other.

The Intimacy of Falling Asleep

I think intimacy may happen most when it is time for sleep.

You get into your PJs or boxers, and we climb into bed. My feet are ice cold, and your legs are so warm, so I slip my feet between them to warm up. We lie face to face, nose to nose. Sometimes we do not say anything at all. (Rare for me to be quiet, I know.)

Then, without saying a word, but simply as part of the natural progression of the night, we kiss goodnight. You pull me close. We close our eyes. We go to sleep knowing the other person will be there in the morning.

Maybe we wake up spooned, or maybe just together in the quiet evidence of life shared as one, all night long.

Do NOT take the wake-up for granted.

Do NOT take the intimacy of small things for granted.

What Remains of Intimacy After Loss

These memories and rhythms are sometimes the only thing that keeps me going. They fuel what is left of my life, because I miss that kind of intimacy so very much. How blessed am I to have known it?

I miss the ordinary closeness that once felt so normal that I barely noticed it. I miss being known. I miss the easy comfort of another person’s presence. The routines and unspoken understanding.

Deep down, honestly, part of my soul knows it is gone, but still aches for it.

It knows it can never be replaced, and that is why it mattered so much.

Please know that intimacy was never about grand declarations or dramatic moments. It was our toothbrushes side by side. The razor tapping twice. The hand on the gear shift. The warm legs encompassing cold feet. The kiss before sleep.

It was a thousand little moments that quietly said: I am here. You are safe. We belong together-intimately.