Read Online A Cup of Comfort for Couples by Colleen Sell - Free Book Online

jacket.” He nudges his seat closer to mine. “They have different types, you know.”
    â€œThey do?” Okay, now he’s pulling my leg.
    Up front, the stern auctioneer with the ricochet voice is belting out prices, trying to coax the crowd to bid on drop-leaf tables, brass footstools, art deco ashtrays.
    â€œReally,” my guy says.
    â€œThey don’t,” I insist.
    â€œPlaid.”
    â€œThey make Burberry jackets for water heaters?”
    My guy smiles. I smile back. My thoughts are warm and cozy.
    In another lifetime, another partner, this one a husband, wrapped me in mink. But this seemed to have everything to do with him, nothing to do with me. Status.
    Don’t get me wrong, I took the fur and wore it for years before my conscience kicked in. I sold it for a fair price to a stranger with cancer who said she wanted to own a fur coat before she died.
    But wrapping the water heater has everything to do with me and the man in my life, and more importantly, with us.
    Living together means planning for the future. Last weekend, at another auction, we bought a set of midcentury Adirondack twig furniture — beautiful settee, two matching chairs, and a table — for the house in the mountains we don’t own but might some day.
    Being coupled means taking a leap of faith, even when you feel the other person is cramping your style. And learning that love can thrive in that slippery, uncomfortable space between feeling stuck and preparing to soar.
    â€” Tina Lincer

As Long as Forever
    W earing an old black overcoat to warm his frail body, an argyle sock on one foot and a black dress sock on the other, Dad leaned forward in his easy chair, staring disconsolately around him. “I’m looking for something,” he told me.
    â€œWhat is it, Dad?”
    â€œWell, it’s about this big,” he began, raising a hand up from the ground, “and it’s hard to describe, but . . . well, I can’t quite get a hold of the, the . . .”
    â€œThe name of what it is?” I wondered aloud.
    â€œYes. What is the problem? I need to know.”
    He got up and began wandering about, through the kitchen, past the couch, back to his chair, and stopping when he was once again in the kitchen. Then he walked back to his easy chair again.
    â€œDid you remember what you’re looking for, Dad?”
    â€œIt’s just that I need to experiment so I can think. I can’t think, for some reason.”
    â€œDo you need me to get you something, Dad? Maybe a snack?”
    â€œNo. I’m not hungry. Well . . . yes, I need something, but what is it? I don’t remember. It’s so irritating when I don’t remember.”
    I sighed, wishing I could do something to help him. I was babysitting Dad for my mother, his main caregiver. Dad has Alzheimer’s, and Mom can’t get away to do anything unless someone can watch him. That night, she had to spend the night at a hospital for a sleep test, so I stayed with him — my first time spending the night at my parents’ home in years.
    â€œDad, maybe you’re looking for Mom?”
    â€œYes, that’s it! Where is she?”
    â€œShe’s at the hospital getting a test. She asked me to stay here with you so she could go get the test because she needs to find out what’s wrong to get better medicine. She’ll be back in the morning.”
    â€œThat’s good,” he said. “But it causes a problem for me. I have to call someone to come pick me up.”
    â€œDad, if someone takes you somewhere, you won’t be here when Mom gets home and she won’t know where you are.”
    â€œOh, yeah. Well, I guess I’m just stuck with a problem then.”
    He walked around the island separating the living room from the kitchen and rummaged around in a drawer for a few minutes. I heard him mutter, “A tablespoon. That will do.” Then he went over to the cupboards.