“But hopefully,” he said, “not for a long, long time.
He closed his eyes with a peaceful look, then asked me to adjust the pillows behind his head.
His body needed constant adjustment to stay comfortable. It was propped in the chair with white pillows, yellow foam, and blue towels.
At a quick glance, it seemed as if Morrie were being packed for shipping.
“Thank you,” he whispered as I moved the pillows. No problem, I said.
“Mitch. What are you thinking?” I paused before answering.
Okay, I said, I’m wondering how you don’t envy younger, healthy people.
“Oh, I guess I do.” He closed his eyes. “I envy them being able to go to the health club, or go for a swim. Or dance. Mostly for dancing.”
“But envy comes to me, I feel it, and then I let it go. Remember what I said about detachment?”
“Let it go. Tell yourself, ‘That’s envy, I’m going to separate from it now.’ And walk away.”
He coughed—a long, scratchy cough—and he pushed a tissue to his mouth and spit weakly into it.
Sitting there, I felt so much stronger than he, ridiculously so, as if I could lift him and toss him over my shoulder like a sack of flour.
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