It was the first time in weeks that I could recall him telling a story like this.
How strange, I thought, that he nearly fainted once from watching someone else's illness, and now he was so able to endure his own.
Connie knocked on the door and said that Morrie's lunch was ready.
It was not the carrot soup and vegetable cakes and Greek pasta I had brought that morning from Bread and Circus.
Although I tried to buy the softest of foods now, they were still beyond Morrie's limited strength to chew and swallow.
He was eating mostly liquid supplements, with perhaps a bran muffin tossed in until it was mushy and easily digested.
Charlotte would puree almost everything in a blender now. He was taking food through a straw.
I still shopped every week and walked in with bags to show him, but it was more for the look on his face than anything else.
When I opened the refrigerator, I would see an overflow of containers.
I guess I was hoping that one day we would go back to eating a real lunch together
and I could watch the sloppy way in which he talked while chewing, the food spilling happily out of his mouth.
This was a foolish hope. “So... Janine,” Morrie said. She smiled.
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