Tuesday's With Morrie Figurative Language

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.

Tuesday's With Morrie Figurative Language

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Tuesday's With Morrie Figurative Language

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

By a window in the study where he could watch a small hibiscus plant

shed its pink leaves.

You might also like