These things”—he sighed—these things I so regret in my life. Pride. Vanity. Why do we do the things we do?”
The importance of forgiving was my question. I had seen those movies where the patriarch of the family is on his death bed
and he calls for his estranged son so that he can make peace before he goes.
I wondered if Morrie had any of that inside him, a sudden need to say “I'm sorry” before he died?
Morrie nodded. “Do you see that sculpture?” He tilted his head toward a bust that sat high on a shelf against the far wall of his office.
I had never really noticed it before. Cast in bronze, it was the face of a man in his early forties,
wearing a necktie, a tuft of hair falling across his forehead.
“That's me,” Morrie said. “A friend of mine sculpted that maybe thirty years ago. His name was Norman.”
“We used to spend so much time together. We went swimming. We took rides to New York.”
He had me over to his house in Cambridge, and he sculpted that bust of me down in his basement.
It took several weeks to do it, but he really wanted to get it right.
I studied the face. How strange to see a three-dimensional Morrie, so healthy, so young, watching over us as we spoke.
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