A very old man lay dying in his bed. In death's
doorway, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite chocolate
chip cookie 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.
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, spread out on newspapers on the kitchen
table were literally hundreds of his favorite chocolate chip
cookies.
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. The aged and withered hand, shaking, made
its way to a cookie at the edge of the table, when he was suddenly
smacked with a spatula by his wife.
"Stay out of those," she said. "They're for your
funeral.
