I still find comfort in certain rituals and idiosyncrasies. Simple parts of our daily lives, each is monumental on its own, each a thread in the fabric of our relationship. Some I’ve come to expect and others still take me by surprise, even if I know it’s coming.
The last kiss in the crack of the doorway before he leaves for work. Then, just one more. And one more.
His arm slung over me while his knees tuck into the backs of mine, making it okay to close my eyes and keep them closed.
His willingness to tell me it’s okay to fall back asleep at 3am. Or, to make me tired again.
The texts we exchange, the words holding meaning only to us.
The neck kiss I get when I’m standing at the stove. And the sink. And the counter. And the fridge.
My hand resting on his leg as he drives. His hand covering mine (and keeping it from being naughty).
The silly comment I know is coming in EVERY conversation we have. Usually it’s inappropriate. I dig that.
The look on his face when I act serious instead of silly.
His laugh when I’m witty.
The way he makes fun of me, knowing I can take it.
His patience with homework. Actually, his patience with everything.
His appreciation for the little things. The way he tells me so, especially with those two special words.
When he pats the front of his chair, ‘asking’ me to sit at his feet.
The way he sees me stealing glances. That grin, oh, god.
The way he listens and hears when my daughters speak.
His hand in my hair while I sit at his feet.
The sureness with which he makes decisions.
The rush of electricity through my skin when he whispers in my ear, no matter where we are.
The telling intonation in his voice when he says, “It’s time for bed” that means we’re not going to sleep.
The way his eyes say things only I can understand.
The way his hugs stop the world from spinning.
The way he’s done most all these things for 20 years. His willingness to do them for many, many more.
For these and so many more, I feel at home.