An elderly man lay dying in his bed.
In death’s agony, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favourite chocolate-chip biscuits wafting up the stairs. He gathered his remaining strength and lifted himself from the bed.
Leaning against the wall he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, forced himself down the stairs, gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled down the steps.
With laboured 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, spread out upon the kitchen table were hundreds of his favourite chocolate-chip biscuits.
Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted wife, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?
Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself toward the table, landing on his knees in a rumpled posture. His parched lips parted: the wondrous taste of the biscuit was already in his mouth, seemingly bringing him back to life.
The aged and withered hand trembled on its way to a biscuit at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked away by a spatula held by his wife.
“Stay out of those,” she said, “they’re for the funeral.”
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