“What a waste,” he said. “All those people saying all those wonderful things, and Irv never got to hear any of it.”
Morrie had a better idea. He made some calls. He chose a date.
And on a cold Sunday afternoon, he was joined in his home by a small group of friends and family for a “living funeral.”
Each of them spoke and paid tribute to my old professor. Some cried. Some laughed.
One woman read a poem: “My dear and loving cousin... Your ageless heart as you move through time, layer on layer, tender sequoia...”
Morrie cried and laughed with them. And all the heartfelt things we never get to say to those we love, Morrie said that day.
His “living funeral” was a rousing success. Only Morrie wasn't dead yet. In fact, the most unusual part of his life was about to unfold.
The Student
At this point, I should explain what had happened to me since that summer day
when I last hugged my dear and wise professor, and promised to keep in touch.
I did not keep in touch. In fact, I lost contact with most of the people I knew in college,
including my beer-drinking friends and the first woman I ever woke up with in the morning.
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