An elderly Italian man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite ravioli wafting up the stairs.
He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed.
Gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen. If not for death's agony he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were hundreds of his favorite ravioli.
Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?
He threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a crumpled posture. His parched lips parted, the wondrous taste of the ravioli was already in his mouth.
With a trembling hand he reached up to the edge of the table, when suddenly . . .
he was smacked with a wood spoon by his wife. "BACK OFF! Whassa matter you? " she said. " Those are for the funeral."
He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed.
Gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen. If not for death's agony he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were hundreds of his favorite ravioli.
Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?
He threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a crumpled posture. His parched lips parted, the wondrous taste of the ravioli was already in his mouth.
With a trembling hand he reached up to the edge of the table, when suddenly . . .
he was smacked with a wood spoon by his wife. "BACK OFF! Whassa matter you? " she said. " Those are for the funeral."