One of the greatest blessings in my life was how much my parents loved each other, and how I knew, saw, witnessed and rested in this love. For 32 years of marriage they found joy in each other, and acted like dating teenagers still around the time that she died. There's a picture somewhere, taken by a professional photographer, the year she died, of both of them sitting on the gazebo holding hands and laughing, then another kissing.
They kissed a lot, and every where. They kissed in the morning; they kissed at night. They kissed after work and before church. They'd kiss on vacation, kiss in the boat, kiss in the kitchen.
Kissing in the kitchen, and everywhere in-between, embossed their days with each other, for each other and others to see. A stamp of love declaring they were one, one in joy and union and life and heart. It wasn't blatant or sloppy or awkward or blunt, but simply life and love, like holding hands on errands or couch cuddling to sitcoms or touring on weekends away. This physical pattern of love was marked and made and molded in life and memory.
As a child, I never blinked about it, or thought it unique, their love unashamed and unaware. As a teenager, I remember hearing my aunt exclaim this was a gift they were giving us, this present to love each other enough, to love in the presence of others.
As an adult, I now know the difference, the gift, the love they gave.
They gave it to each other. They gave their laughter and friendship, their free time and fun time. Their belt-loop finger-linger's and hand-to-knee in church. They gave songs and swift feet for dancing, dinners in the tropics, and date nights in GR. They gave their compliments and praises, their boasting and bragging, confident in each other, and what the other had done.
And they gave it to us. Their steadfast love and safety, to each other, to create our home. This secure sense of happy union, solid in their foundations, pronounced with positivity, affection, love, and the always-constant -- kisses in the kitchen.
