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

want to go to sleep?”
    â€œCan’t go to sleep. No. There’s more people involved now.”
    â€œDo you mean Mom? She’ll be home soon.” I explained, once again, how she was at the hospital getting a test and would be home tomorrow morning. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to bed?”
    â€œNo, I don’t. I want to get a feeling for things,” he replied. “With my . . .”
    â€œExperiments,” I whispered, as he began moving the piles and the spoons around again, turning the light on and off again, and staring hard at them as if something in this setup would solve the problem of Mom’s being gone overnight.
    Dad’s head began to droop, and soon his chin rested on his chest. As he started breathing more slowly and regularly, I went to let the dog out. When I opened the front door, Dad jumped up and walked quickly over to me.
    â€œI have a problem, and I need someone to help me,” Dad said, in an uncharacteristically shaky voice, his eyes brimming with tears. His face somehow reminded me of a lost little boy.
    Gently, I asked, “Dad, do you need a hug?”
    â€œNo. I need help is all. But I can’t remember what it’s about.”
    â€œIs it because Mom’s gone?”
    â€œThat’s it!”
    I explained it once more. His voice still shook a little, but he agreed that it was good she was getting a test. He walked back to his easy chair and sat down.
    Dad picked up the spoons, pushed all the napkins together in one big pile, and set the spoons right next to each other on the pile of napkins, stared at it with a smile, and turned off the light. Then his face went blank, and in the dim light from the lamp near me I watched as, again, he took the spoons off the big pile and divided up the napkins into two piles.
    â€œDad, what are the tablespoons for?” I finally asked.
    â€œThey represent who lives at this house. There are two of us who live here. And one is gone,” he said. “You see my problem? The equation won’t work.”
    I felt my throat squeeze in on itself. The piles of napkins and handkerchiefs were beds, pillows, and blankets. The spoons were Dad and Mom.
    He moved the spoons and piles apart, divided by the lamp neck once again, then put them together again, trying to see what he could do to stop the pain of being unable to be with the one he loved. He couldn’t understand it, he couldn’t explain it, and he was doing his best, in his own world, to try and resolve the problem.
    Tears spilled as I said, “Well, Dad, I know Mom loves you, too. And she’ll be back in the morning.”
    Dad took the spoons and tied them with the handkerchiefs, over his mismatched socks, to his feet.
    â€œDad, it’s almost midnight. Do you want to go to bed?”
    â€œNo. I’ll wait.”
    He sat on his easy chair again and leaned back; soon his head drooped and a quiet snore drifted out. He couldn’t have been comfortable at all, with his clothes still on, with his feet tied up in handkerchiefs and spoons, and with nothing but the thin overcoat to keep him warm. I covered him with a blanket and lay down on the couch. I wouldn’t wake him. After all, if a man loves a woman as long as forever, he might at least be allowed to wait for her in the room closest to where she’ll return in the morning, so they can be happy together once more.
    â€” Suzanne Endres

The Almost-Proposal
    S am and I aren’t married yet. We will be married some day; we just aren’t married yet. We haven’t even discussed marriage. I’m in no hurry. He’s in no hurry. Things are good. Things are so good Sam has moved in. I’m happy. He’s happy. His cats are happy. My dog is happy. The bills are paid. The refrigerator is full. The sky is blue. Life is good.
    But there is a little problem: marriage is on Sam’s mind. I seem to be oblivious to his hints. We are still learning