Goes Back, b'y   Cookies for Wilbur

Author: Don R. Wilkins

Wilbur, an old Newfie lay perilously near death, his rugged, mahogany tinted features composed in stoic Christian resignation at his approaching end. His mind was very much on his impending demise, just as his parish priest had suggested when he suddenly smelled his favorite Molasses cookies. Their aroma wafted up the stairs from the kitchen to his twitching nostrils, teasing his, until then, dulled senses.


Was he dreaming?


He summoned some last vestige of strength and laboriously hoisted himself up from the bed and slowly made his way out of the bedroom. With even greater effort he gripped the banisters with both hands and barely managed to crawl downstairs, step by halting step. His breath came in painful gasps when he finally collapsed against the door frame and gazed teary eyed into the kitchen.


If it were not for his aching body he would have thought himself in Heaven!


There, spread out upon wax paper on the table and on all the kitchen surfaces, were HUNDREDS of his favorite Molasses cookies.


How his heart warmed towards his companion of the last 60 years. Wasn't this, after all, proof of a devoted Newfoundland wife's love for her husband?


Look how she was seeing to it that he left this world a happy man!!


Yes, admittedly, at times, she had been shrill or brusque but, holy Moses, just contemplate this sign of true affection for her old fisherman husband.


Mustering yet more strength from he knew not where, he lunged at the cookie laden table and landed on his knees, his lips parted in expectation, waiting to savor that delectable and characteristic taste of warm Molasses dough crumbling in his mouth. He could almost feel those wondrous morsels on his tongue! He felt a new surge of Life rise in him.


Weariness fell from him miraculously. He raised his arm. His withered, blue-veined hand trembled and reached out, hovered longingly, lingering just a fraction of a second in hesitation above the nearest cookie on the table............




Out of nowhere a spatula, deftly wielded by his devoted


Mildred, came down hard and unerringly on his offending hand, imprisoning it relentlessly against the table's surface.....his crippled fingers scrabbled uselessly to retain the tantalizing cookie. "But what do you think you are doing?!!?" screeched his loving wife. "They're for the funeral!"


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