By a window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant
shed its pink leaves.
Hot, sticky Saturday afternoon Hundreds of us sit together, side by side, in rows of wooden folding chairs on the main campus lawn. The curtain has just come down on childhood. He is a small man who takes small steps, as if a strong wind could, at any time, whisk him up into the clouds. He looks like a cross between a biblical prophet and a Christmas elf. He has sparkling blue-green eyes, thinning silver hair that spills onto his forehead, big ears, a triangular nose, and tufts of graying eyebrows. Although his teeth are crooked and his lower ones are slanted back—as if someone had once punched them in—when he smiles it’s as if you’d just told him the first joke on earth. They had flashing lights and booming speakers and Morrie would wander in among the mostly student crowd, wearing a white T-shirt and black sweatpants and a towel around his neck, and whatever music was playing, that’s the music to which he danced. He twisted and twirled, he waved his arms like a conductor on amphetamines, until sweat was dripping down the middle of his back. Commandeered the floor, shooting back and forth like some hot Latin lover. Sun was shining and people were going about their business. Charlotte had a million thoughts running through her mind Stunned by the normalcy of the day around him ALS is like a lit candle: it melts your nerves and leaves your body a pile of wax Your soul, perfectly awake, is imprisoned inside a limp husk, perhaps able to blink, or cluck a tongue, like something from a science fiction movie, the man frozen inside his own flesh. Closed his eyes and narrowed his thoughts until his world shrunk down to a single breath, in and out, in and out. He felt as if he were dropping into a hole. Professor had made a profound decision, one he began to construct the day he came out of the doctor’s office with a sword hanging over his head. Morrie would walk that final bridge between life and death, and narrate the trip. For all that was happening to him, his voice was strong and inviting, and his mind was vibrating with a million thoughts. I had my first serious encounter with death. He was a short, handsome man with a thick mustache, and I was with him for the last year of his life, living in an apartment just below his. I watched his strong body wither, then bloat, saw him suffer, night after night, doubled over at the dinner table, pressing on his stomach, his eyes shut, his mouth contorted in pain. He looked out toward the horizon and said, through gritted teeth. I felt as if time were suddenly precious, water going down an open drain, and I could not move quickly enough. Instead of chasing my own fame, I wrote about famous athletes chasing theirs. I worked at a pace that knew no hours, no limits. The sports appetite in that city was insatiable—they had professional teams in football, basketball, baseball, and hockey—and it matched my ambition. Spouting my opinions. I was part of the media thunderstorm that now soaks our country. I was cranked to a fifth gear, and everything I did, I did on a deadline. I buried myself in accomplishments, because with accomplishments, I believed I could control things, I could squeeze in every last piece of happiness before I got sick and died, like my uncle before me, which I figured was my natural fate. Lifting him like a heavy sack from the chair to the bed and the bed to the chair. He had begun to cough while eating, and chewing was a chore. His legs were dead; he would never walk again. Morrie had become a lightning rod of ideas. He jotted down his thoughts on yellow pads, envelopes, folders, scrap paper. They buzzed with excitement—all except Morrie, who wheeled himself forward, raised his eyebrows, and interrupted the clamor with his high, singsong voice. There was an awkward moment of silence, then the two men were ushered into the study. The door was shut. Soon the cameras were rolling in front of the living room fireplace, with Koppel in his crisp blue suit and Morrie in his shaggy gray sweater. He had refused fancy clothes or makeup for this interview. His philosophy was that death should not be embarrassing; he was not about to powder its nose. I enter Morrie’s large office and notice the seemingly countless books that line the wall, shelf after shelf. There is a large rug on the hardwood floor and a window that looks out on the campus walk. Only a dozen or so students are there, fumbling with notebooks and syllabi. Most of them wear jeans and earth shoes and plaid flannel shirts. I do a double take at this guy in his yellow turtleneck and green corduroy pants, the silver hair that falls on his forehead. His hair was thinner, nearly white, and his face was gaunt. I suddenly felt unprepared for this reunion—for one thing, I was stuck on the phone—and I hoped that he hadn’t noticed my arrival, so that I could drive around the block a few more times, finish my business, get mentally ready. But Morrie, this new, withered version of a man I had once known so well, was smiling at the car, hands folded in his lap, waiting for me to emerge. I killed the engine and sunk down off the seat, as if I were looking for something. Morrie was hugging me, his thinning hair rubbing against my cheek. I squeezed him tighter, as if I could crush my little lie. Although the spring sunshine was warm, he wore a windbreaker and his legs were covered by a blanket. He smelled faintly sour, the way people on medication sometimes do. With his face pressed close to mine, I could hear his labored breathing in my ear.