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, where if not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in Heaven, for there, spread out upon wax paper on the kitchen table were hundreds of his favorite ravioli.
Was it Heaven? Or was it one final act of 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 wooden spoon by his wife who said:
"Questi sono per il funerale."
(Translation - "Fu_ _ off. These are for the funeral.")