He ran through the streets, and kept running until he reached the steps of a relative's house, where he collapsed on the porch.
Heart attack. He died that night. Morrie was called to identify the body.
He flew to New York and went to the morgue. He was taken downstairs, to the cold room where the corpses were kept.
“Is this your father?” the attendant asked. Morrie looked at the body behind the glass,
the body of the man who had scolded him and molded him and taught him to work,
who had been quiet when Morrie wanted him to speak, who had told Morrie to swallow his memories of his mother
when he wanted to share them with the world. He nodded and he walked away.
The horror of the room, he would later say, sucked all other functions out of him. He did not cry until days later.
Still, his father's death helped prepare Morrie for his own.
This much he knew: there would be lots of holding and kissing and talking and laughter and no good-byes left unsaid,
all the things he missed with his father and his mother.
When the final moment came, Morrie wanted his loved ones around him, knowing what was happening.
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