as if someone had shaken salt neatly across his cheeks and chin. How could there be new life in his beard when it was draining everywhere else?
“Morrie,” I said softly. “Coach,” he corrected. “Coach,” I said. I felt a shiver.
He spoke in short bursts, inhaling air, exhaling words. His voice was thin and raspy. He smelled of ointment.
“You... are a good soul.” A good soul. “Touched me...” he whispered.
He moved my hands to his heart. “Here.” It felt as if I had a pit in my throat.
“Coach?” “Ahh?” “I don’t know how to say good-bye.” He patted my hand weakly, keeping it on his chest.
“This... is how we say... good-bye...” He breathed softly, in and out, I could feel his ribcage rise and fall.
Then he looked right at me. “Love... you,” he rasped. “I love you, too, Coach.”
“Know you do... know... something else...” “What else do you know?” “You... always have...”
His eyes got small, and then he cried, his face contorting like a baby who hasn’t figured out how his tear ducts work.
I held him close for several minutes. I rubbed his loose skin. I stroked his hair.
I put a palm against his face and felt the bones close to the flesh and the tiny wet tears, as if squeezed from a dropper.
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