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An elderly man lay dying in his bed. In death's agony, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite sugar cookies wafting up the stairs. He gathered enough strength to get out of bed. Leaning against the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom.
With even greater effort, he forced his bony fingers to grab the handrail and he went down the stairs, one stumbling step at a time. With labored breath, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven.
There, on the kitchen table, spread out in rows upon wax paper, were literally hundreds of his favorite sugar cookies. Was it heaven? Or, was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted wife of 60 years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man? Mustering one great final effort, he lunged toward the table, landing on his knees in a rumpled posture.
His parched lips were slightly parted. The wondrous taste of the cookie was already in his mouth; seemingly bringing him back to life. The aged and withered hand, driven by one last gritty effort, shakingly made its way towards a cookie at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his wife.
"Stay out of those," she said, "They're for the funeral!"
With even greater effort, he forced his bony fingers to grab the handrail and he went down the stairs, one stumbling step at a time. With labored breath, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen. Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven.
There, on the kitchen table, spread out in rows upon wax paper, were literally hundreds of his favorite sugar cookies. Was it heaven? Or, was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted wife of 60 years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man? Mustering one great final effort, he lunged toward the table, landing on his knees in a rumpled posture.
His parched lips were slightly parted. The wondrous taste of the cookie was already in his mouth; seemingly bringing him back to life. The aged and withered hand, driven by one last gritty effort, shakingly made its way towards a cookie at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his wife.
"Stay out of those," she said, "They're for the funeral!"
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