We're Tuesday people. “Right. Tuesday people. Come to talk, then?”
He has grown so weak so fast. “Look at me,” he says. I'm looking.
“You'll come to my grave? To tell me your problems?” My problems?
“Yes.” And you'll give me answers? “I'll give you what I can. Don't I always?”
I picture his grave, on the hill, overlooking the pond, some little nine foot piece of earth where they will place him,
cover him with dirt, put a stone on top. Maybe in a few weeks? Maybe in a few days?
I see myself sitting there alone, arms across my knees, staring into space.
It won't be the same, I say, not being able to hear you talk. “Ah, talk...” He closes his eyes and smiles.
Tell you what. After I'm dead, you talk. And I'll listen.”
The Thirteenth Tuesday We Talk About the Perfect Day
Morrie wanted to be cremated. He had discussed it with Charlotte, and they decided it was the best way.
The rabbi from Brandeis, Al Axelrad—a longtime friend whom they chose to conduct the funeral service—
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