I had been trying to call my brother in Spain for weeks,
and had learned—from a friend of his—that he was flying back and forth to a hospital in Amsterdam.
Mitch, I know it hurts when you can't be with someone you love. But you need to be at peace with his desires.
Maybe he doesn't want you interrupting your life. Maybe he can't deal with that burden.
I tell everyone I know to carry on with the life they know—don't ruin it because I am dying.
“But he's my brother,” I said. “I know,” Morrie said. “That's why it hurts.”
I saw Peter in my mind when he was eight years old, his curly blond hair puffed into a sweaty ball atop his head.
I saw us wrestling in the yard next to our house, the grass stains soaking through the knees of our jeans.
I saw him singing songs in front of the mirror, holding a brush as a microphone,
and I saw us squeezing into the attic where we hid together as children, testing our parents' will to find us for dinner.
And then I saw him as the adult who had drifted away, thin and frail, his face bony from the chemotherapy treatments.
“Morrie,” I said. “Why doesn't he want to see me?” My old professor sighed.
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