Ishmael is lying on his death bed…
…at the ripe old age of 97. He weakly raises his head and, through whispered, labored breaths, asks, “Where is my wife, Elena?”
“Oi vey, I am here, my love,” whimpers the elderly woman as she clutches her husband’s hand.
“This is good,” says Ishmael. “And what of my son, Abraham? Is he here?”
“I sit here, you meshuggener old man,” says Abraham, laughing despite his grief.
“You are a good boy, Abraham,” whispers Ishmael. “And my darling daughter Sarah, where is she?”
“Papa, I love you!” cries Sarah as she draws a tissue to her face.
“And my grandchildren? Ezekial, Ruth, Emmanuel, Seraphine, Bartholomew?”
“We are all here, grandpapa!” the children cry in unison.
“So my family, all my family, is here with me now?” asks Ishmael.
“Yes, of course, dear,” soothes Elena.
“Then why is the light on in the kitchen?”
