“Not too hard,” he said. “I'm an old man.” I drummed on his back and sides, moving around, as she instructed.
I hated the idea of Morrie's lying in bed under any circumstances (his last aphorism, “When you're in bed, you're dead,” rang in my ears),
and curled on his side, he was so small, so withered, it was more a boy's body than a man's.
I saw the paleness of his skin, the stray white hairs, the way his arms hung limp and helpless.
I thought about how much time we spend trying to shape our bodies, lifting weights, crunching sit-ups,
and in the end, nature takes it away from us anyhow.
Beneath my fingers, I felt the loose flesh around Morrie's bones, and I thumped him hard, as instructed.
The truth is, I was pounding on his back when I wanted to be hitting the walls.
“Mitch?” Morrie gasped, his voice jumpy as a jackhammer as I pounded on him. Uh-huh?
“When did... I... give you... a B?” Morrie believed in the inherent good of people.
But he also saw what they could become. “People are only mean when they're threatened,” he said later that day,
“and that's what our culture does. That's what our economy does.
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