Fifteen months into widowhood, what do I miss?
Touch and Talk.
Sex, yes, of course, but the desire for that pales beside the need to be touched. I have a serious case of skin hunger.
Couples who live together in intimacy take for granted the many times in a day when they touch each other, from bumping into one another in the bathroom, to fingertips brushing over a coffee cup or one cold foot seeking out the warmer one under the blanket.
I miss my husband’s hands on my back, applying the suntan lotion in the hard-to-reach place; moving up and down with the zipper, turning my shoulders to the light where, his face a picture of fierce concentration, he would try to fasten a clasp on a necklace or that tiny hook at the top of the dress, swearing all the while. Then, when he had conquered that pesky closing…
View original post 462 more words