a quilt of hopeful messages that friends had stitched for him on his seventieth birthday.
Each patch on the quilt had a different message: STAY THE COURSE, THE BEST IS YET TO BE, MORRIE—ALWAYS NO. I IN MENTAL HEALTH!
What was the question? I asked. “If I worried about being forgotten after I died?” Well? Do you?
“I don’t think I will be. I’ve got so many people who have been involved with me in close, intimate ways.
And love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone.”
Sounds like a song lyric—“love is how you stay alive.” Morrie chuckled.
“Maybe. But, Mitch, all this talk that we’re doing? Do you ever hear my voice sometimes when you’re back home?
When you’re all alone? Maybe on the plane? Maybe in your car?” Yes, I admitted.
“Then you will not forget me after I’m gone. Think of my voice and I’ll be there.”
Think of your voice. “And if you want to cry a little, it’s okay.”
Morrie. He had wanted to make me cry since I was a freshman.
One of these days, I’m gonna get to you,he would say.
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