He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed. Gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs.
Downstairs, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen, where 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 pierogi.
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 pierogi 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 wooden spoon by his wife.
“Back off!” she said. “Those are for the funeral.”