Jewelry

An elderly man I know recently lost his wife. With the help of neighbors who had been lifelong friends with the deceased, the widower held a fitting wake. Three days before the forty-day wake, Nikolai Ivanovich had an unusual dream: his wife, Anna, was sitting on a bench outside the house, sorting through her silver jewelry, which she had treasured so much in life, and tenderly saying to her husband, "Kolya, when you celebrate forty days, don't give money to my dear friends. Instead, give Nadya these earrings, Vera a necklace, and Olga a ring." The widower searched all morning and all day for his wife's jewelry—he ransacked the entire house, but couldn't find it. Left everything as is, he had no choice.

On the eve of the wake, the women prepared kutia, brewed kvass, and prepared hot dishes so they could begin preparing the funeral dinner at dawn. Nikolai Ivanovich tried to offer them money for kitchen work, but they flatly refused, looking at him almost resentfully. That evening, he went to bed; he tossed and turned, his eyes wide open, and finally dozed off in the early morning.

Suddenly, he heard his wife's voice: "What's wrong, Kolya? Look, here they are." The closet door creaked open, and a white gauze bundle flew out. It flew across the bedroom and landed next to Nikolai Ivanovich's bed. With trembling hands, the widower unwrapped it—it contained his wife's jewelry. Anna had been frequently ill in recent years and hadn't worn jewelry, so she had put it away.

After the funeral, Nikolai Ivanovich told the women about his dream, gave them the jewelry, and asked them to wear it.