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When the angel of death knocked on Mrs Kaminsky’s door, her reaction was not at all what he was expecting. “Come in, sit down. Can I get you something to eat?”
“No,” said the specter.
“Are you sure? You’re looking gaunt.” She ushered the visitor to a chair saying, “You’re in luck. I just baked a babka. It’s still warm. People say I make a really good babka. What’s your hurry, it’s not like you’re going anywhere.”
“Well, okay,” said the angel pulling his seat closer to the round oak table. The table with the oil cloth cover. The very table where Ida Kaminsky had served thousands of meals to her children, her husband. Meals all served with such love and devotion it almost made the angel feel ashamed.
Death propped his scythe against the wall and waited as Ida cut a generous slice of the fresh pastry. And it was by far the best babka the angel had ever tasted. One slice led to another until the angel groaned with contentment.
“If you like, I can wrap up a piece for later,” Ida Kaminsky said.
“Sure,” said Death, “Later.” And he took the piece of cake wrapped in aluminum foil from the old woman’s hand and left.
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