Page 3 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

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A few shorthours later, Jenny and I are giving each other one last hug before we go our separate ways at the airport.

“Thanks again for flying down here on such short notice,” I tell her as we pull away. “I needed you—even more than I thought I would.”

She grabs my hand before I can turn to go. She’s got her serious eyes on.

“Gracie, the last few months have been particularly rough,” she says. “I’ve been in complete and total amazement watching you this last year, but I have a request. You know that thing that they’re about to say to us on the plane about putting our own oxygen masks on first?”

“Jenny,” I interrupt, my patience with the world worn thin. “You know I had to get masks on the kids first. You know that.”

“I do, sweetie,” she reassures me, “but I’m not sure that you ever put your own mask on at all. Like, ever. Today was proof. I think it’s time to focus on you. Go to Canopy.”

She pulls me in for one last, big hug and I whisper that I will take her advice under close consideration.

“Next time I see you, you’re going to be gigantic,” I add playfully, touching her belly and trying to end this quick, complex visit on a tender note. “Be sure to tell this peanut how much I love her every single night, okay?”

“Will do,” she says. “Last piece of advice: in the coming days try to think about the first ten minutes of that interview, not the last five. When it was good, it was really good. I’m proud of you. You should be proud of yourself—I know Ben definitely is.”

Ninety minutes later, I’m on my flight back home. Back to my kids, my real life, the last month of school, and another summer without Ben. It’s been just over a year since we lost him, but last summer it was all so fresh, passing by in a haze of grief so thick that sometimes it felt hard to breathe. Last year there was bereavement leave, frozen dinners made by sweet ladies from church, and a fledgling writing gig that I was convinced would disappear as quickly as it had arrived. The meals and official mourning period ended, but the writing thing stuck around.

When I quickly grab a magazine from my bag to read, out slides a laminated commemorative essay that was given to audience members today. It’s an extra signed copy that Maisy gave me to remember the appearance—as if I could ever forget what happened.

I study the photo at the top. It’s a casual shot of Ben and me on one of those magical nights out with friends when everyone was able to line up babysitters and no one needed to cancel due to last-minute work obligations. It’s the last real photo I have of us, and if I knew how widely the essay would end up being shared, I probably would’ve chosen something less meaningful.

I’m perched on a tall bar stool staring up at him with a big smile while he stares down at me with a playful grin. A finger is snuck between buttons on his shirt and I’m pulling him in close. His arm is tucked behind my back, a hand resting on my hip. My long, dark-brown hair looks shiny and full of body. A good hair day, for sure. There’s a visible twinkle in my eyes.

Ben is in desperate need of a haircut in this photo, but his wavy brown hair makes him look younger, despite the flecks of gray that were on a slow, steady march from temples to crown. I swear I can see his freckles, even though the lighting in the restaurant is terrible and our friend took the picture from a few feet away.

I like to look at this photo whenever our last hours together come to mind. I like remembering him like this: full of life and happiness and with so much to live for. He’ll be stuck at this age forever, whereas I’ve already celebrated a birthday without him. What I wouldn’t give to look—no, to feel—as happy as I do in this photo.

My eyes drift to the essay itself.Theessay. I haven’t actually read it since the morning I sent it toThe New York Timesfor consideration. The morning that set this new life into motion. I take a deep breath and begin.

Some people are born huggers. I am not one of them.

One of my earliest memories is being told by my parents, aunts, and sundry extended family about what a good baby I had been. I slept, I ate, I smiled, I did my duty as a human with very little fuss. A dream, they would say.

As I grew older and my introversion fully blossomed, I became convinced that my infant self quickly assessed the situation and decided that being wholly agreeable would mean less physical touch from those around me. A quiet baby is left alone on the blanket. A non-fussy baby doesn’t get rocked for an hour before bed. No hugging required.

In my life, there have been few people I’ve hugged without reservation. I require a connection so deep that it’s almost an impossible standard to reach. My children. My favoriteaunt, Sandy. Friends who have appeared in my life at the perfect moments as if sent by a higher power, like my best friend, Jenny. Most of all, my husband, Ben.

Ben and I met in college and were immediately inseparable. The first time he suggested we spend the night together (as in sleep over—the deed had long since been done), I was confused. Two people, all night, in a twin bed? I didn’t understand the physics.

But I loved him from the moment he sat down next to me in our Introduction to Anthropology class, and this felt like a test. Not a test he was giving me (that wasn’t Ben’s style), but one I was giving myself. Was I capable of this level of intimacy? Of being wrapped up and consumed into someone else’s space and embrace—literally and figuratively feeling the weight of their affection?

Yes, it turns out. With Ben, it was possible.

I promised myself the summer before my freshman year that, no, I absolutely would not go to college, fall in love, and spend four years tied to another person. I was annoyed to meet Ben three weeks into the semester but too stubborn to give him away. One thing I’ve always had a talent for is recognizing a good thing when it’s right in front of me.

I realized that all of the things that scared me—marriage, kids, big commitments—were not scary at all with someone next to me whom I trusted without reservation. I felt instantly known and understood by him. He respected and was, perhaps, even a bit charmed by my love of physical boundaries.

In today’s cultural lingo, it would be easy to devolve this to love languages. His, touch. Mine, not touching me onpurpose. As most couples do, we learned how to meet in the middle. Our hugs became a secret language. Every marriage has its own dictionary, and ours was the physical attention we each needed or didn’t need in a given moment.

I knew when he had a tough day at work and needed me to crawl silently into his lap on the sofa and wrap my arms around his neck. He knew when to hug me from behind and bury his face in my hair after a particularly stressful visit from family. He never got it wrong, not once. He read my cues, and I read his. Ben’s love of affection softened me in ways that mattered, in ways that made me a loving, affectionate mother from day one. A better daughter. A better friend.

I thought of Ben and our secret language whenever I met a new set of sad, teary eyes at his memorial service.

He was too young. I’m sorry this was so sudden. He loved you and the kids so much. I can’t believe this has happened to you two. You were perfect together.

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