My husband’s inability to say nice things was not his only deficiency. I personally do not care for an excessive display of public affection. But the simple touch, that I do enjoy.

“So, Tony,“ I believe I’ve said, “how about slipping an arm around my shoulder while the minister goes into his third and final point? How about a gentle nudge to show me Linda is waving at me across the auditorium? How about, best of all, just placing your hand in the small of my back after the service is over to usher me out of the building and to the parking lot instead of standing in the doorway calling, “Come on, Slick!“

I think of those things as “claiming me.“ All of these subtle touches would say to me, and to anyone watching, “My woman!“

I’m not saying he doesn’t try. He isn’t totally deaf to my wish list. When we discuss it every five or six years, he’s better for about three weeks. He touches my shoulder in the potluck dinner line and squeezed my knee when he sits down by me after the offering.

We haven’t had the talk for years now, but every six months or so, his memory will kick in. We’ll be sitting in church, when out of no where, he’ll throw his arm on the pew behind my shoulder. I’ll look at him and see incredible pride all over his face. But after about two minutes, he’ll start inching that arm back toward his body. He really wants it back. And I pat his leg, which means it’s fine, you can have your arm back.

The reason we don’t talk about it any more is because I finally realized the value of what I have. My husband touches me a lot. He holds me every night when we go to sleep and every morning as we wake up from the semiconscious state of sleep. He has done this for as long as I can remember; it is one of my most treasured gifts; it is what I’ll miss most if he leaves this life for the next before I do.