the poem that likened him to a “tender sequoia.” They slept in shifts around his bed.
Morrie had fallen into a coma two days after our final visit, and the doctor said he could go at any moment.
Instead, he hung on, through a tough afternoon, through a dark night.
Finally, on the fourth of November, when those he loved had left the room just for a moment—to grab coffee in the kitchen,
the first time none of them were with him since the coma began—Morrie stopped breathing.
And he was gone. I believe he died this way on purpose.
I believe he wanted no chilling moments, no one to witness his last breath and be haunted by it,
the way he had been haunted by his mother’s death-notice telegram or by his father’s corpse in the city morgue.
I believe he knew that he was in his own bed, that his books and his notes and his small hibiscus plant were nearby.
He wanted to go serenely, and that is how he went. The funeral was held on a damp, windy morning.
The grass was wet and the sky was the color of milk.
We stood by the hole in the earth, close enough to hear the pond water lapping against the edge and to see ducks shaking off their feathers.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색