A very old man lay dying in his bed. In death's doorway, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite sorpotel 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, already cooked and just cooling was a huge saucepan of sorpotel.
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 sanna at the edge of the table, when he was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his wife.
"Stay away from that," she said. "It’s for the funeral”.
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, already cooked and just cooling was a huge saucepan of sorpotel.
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 sanna at the edge of the table, when he was suddenly smacked with a spatula by his wife.
"Stay away from that," she said. "It’s for the funeral”.
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