Tight, Blissful Squeezes

"When Aidan hugged you, you knew you were... hugged."

This was said by a dear friend of mine during her first visit to our house after Aidan passed in September, and it rings through my head nearly every day.  It's exactly the truth, and many of you knew it.  The way that, even at age seven, he'd jump up on you, wrap his long, lean, strong legs around your waist, snuggle that chest of his against yours, and latch those arms around your neck like you were his entire lifeboat.  He'd squeeze with vigor and give you the Hello! you deserved, sometimes hanging on for minutes, before something caught his eye, and he'd scramble back on down to the ground, and he was off, skipping to the next adventure, marveling at some twist of light on a shard of glass in the driveway, following the crazed path of a drunken butterfly, watching the wind blow the American flag high in the sky.

Even as my belly expanded into the 16th week of pregnancy, Aidan-- more gingerly, of course-- continued this ritual.  As I left for work one afternoon during the week before he died, he skip-hopped lightly into my arms, and I plopped that little rump atop my growing belly bump.  Somehow his body found a way to meld with mine in a cementing reassurance to remind me that, no matter what life changes came between us, I was his, and he mine, and forever his arms and legs will be wrapped around me in those tight, blissful squeezes.