Michelle Blanchard Ardillo

From almost the exact moment that we became a couple, my husband has held my hand. If we are sitting in different chairs on either side of a table watching tv at night, he will reach across the table and hold out his hand for me to grasp. When we are out together in the car, and the traffic isn’t too bad, he will hold his hand out for me to take it for a few minutes. If we get out of the car to go into a restaurant or store (you know, in the before times), he will reach behind to clasp my hand in his as we cross the street or walk up a set of steps, even just one step from the driveway to the sidewalk of the shopping center. He always walks slightly ahead of me “to block traffic” which is a long-standing joke of his.

We had a very small wedding, in my Louisiana hometown, about 60 miles southeast of New Orleans, just family and a few very close friends of our parents. Our only non-relative friends present were people who participated in the wedding itself: two musician friends, my maid of honor. The size of the guest list had a little to do with money as neither of us had any, and my parents were paying for the flowers, invitations, stipends to the church and musicians, and a small reception at my parents’ house after. It also had to do with the fact that my husband and I grew up in small towns about 100 miles apart from one another. At the time of our wedding, my husband had just completed grad school in Virginia and I was working and living in Maryland. We didn’t want to burden his Virginia friends and my Maryland friends with a decision of whether to fly to Louisiana or not, especially since my hometown really had no hotel, motel, or inn. So, rather than hurt feelings by inviting some but not all, we just didn’t invite anyone outside of our families.

Neither of us minded how small the wedding and reception were, because for us, it was all about just the two of us starting our life together. Nothing else really mattered. I bought a tea-length dress off the rack on my lunch hour. We took the bus to a nearby mall for him to buy a new dress shirt and tie for a suit he already owned. But, I remember with great clarity all of the Mass, us holding hands during our vows, our hands together when we exchanged rings, and even holding hands during the homily, which I am sure was frowned upon in my very conservative hometown Catholic church.

A family friend from my hometown had become a photographer, and he took our wedding photos. Once when I was showing them to a friend here in Maryland, she remarked that Tom is holding my hand in every single photo, and often, he is holding my one hand with both of his hands. After the wedding, we took a picture under the giant oak tree in my parents’ yard, the breeze from the Mississippi blowing in our hair, and yep, he is holding my hand in both of his, while I hold my bouquet in the other. When our parents offered up toasts in my mom’s living room, we are each holding a glass of champagne, and he is again holding my free hand.

Once my friend mentioned it, I couldn’t help but look for it in all photos of us after that. Sure enough, in almost every photo we have taken celebrating our anniversary having dinner out over the years, he has reached across the table and taken my hand just before the photo is taken.

I read an article once that said you should hold hands with your partner when you are arguing, as it will remind both of you of the bond you share, rather than the difference that is causing the argument. Full disclosure: we do not do this, and we argue just like everyone else. But, still, I wonder if Tom’s frequent reaching for my hand is one of the reasons why we are happily together after 32 years, even after the 24/7 together time of the pandemic.

I have another friend who offered up a more cynical thought on this subject. She said that he is holding on to me, like a possession, to keep me from getting away. I laughed, but inside I was thinking, “Get away from what? I’m right where I want to be!”

During the pandemic when we didn’t go anywhere, and especially to the no-appointment hair salon we had been going to for decades that was always swarming with people and chairs so close together, Tom’s hair got longer and longer. He’s Italian on both sides, so it’s thick and wavy, and in it’s longer “style” it could qualify as what we used to call “big hair” back in the 1980s. He thinks he looks like Elvis; I think I like it better short and neat, but it’s his hair so I’m mostly mum on the subject. However, now that he is back in the office every day, he has told me about all the comments he is getting about his hair, mostly compliments on the longer length, and mostly FROM WOMEN he works with. I’m not really the jealous type, but . . . I’m not entirely crazy about this situation, lol. I feel like showing up to his work one day and having him walk me around the office while I hold his hand.

Today, June 10th, is our 32nd wedding anniversary. We started it the same way we do every day now that I’m no longer teaching, having coffee together. And, as you might have guessed, he did reach out and briefly hold my hand across the table before he left for work. We’ll have dinner out tomorrow night, ask a server to take our picture, and of course, we’ll be holding hands. Happy 32 to us!