Morrie coughs violently. His hands quiver as he drops them by his side. “I think,” he says, smiling, “God overdid it.”
The Eleventh Tuesday We Talk About Our Culture
“Hit him harder.” I slapped Morrie's back. “Harder.” I slapped him again.
“Near his shoulders... now down lower.” Morrie, dressed in pajama bottoms, lay in bed on his side,
his head flush against the pillow, his mouth open.
The physical therapist was showing me how to bang loose the poison in his lungs—
which he needed done regularly now, to keep it from solidifying, to keep him breathing.
“I... always knew... you wanted... to hit me...” Morrie gasped.
Yeah, I joked as I rapped my fist against the alabaster skin of his back.
This is for that B you gave me sophomore year! Whack!
We all laughed, a nervous laughter that comes when the devil is within earshot.
It would have been cute, this little scene, were it not what we all knew it was, the final calisthenics before death.
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