Although hundreds of people had wanted to attend, Charlotte kept this gathering small, just a few close friends and relatives.
Rabbi Axelrod read a few poems. Morrie’s brother, David—who still walked with a limp from his childhood polio—
lifted the shovel and tossed dirt in the grave, as per tradition.
At one point, when Morrie’s ashes were placed into the ground, I glanced around the cemetery.
Morrie was right. It was indeed a lovely spot, trees and grass and a sloping hill.
“You talk, I’ll listen,” he had said. I tried doing that in my head and, to my happiness, found that the imagined conversation felt almost natural.
I looked down at my hands, saw my watch and realized why. It was Tuesday.
My father moved through theys of we, singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring danced when she heard my father sing)...
--POEM BY E. E. CUMMINGS, READ BY MORRIE’S SON, ROB, AT THE MEMORIAL SERVICE
Conclusion
I look back sometimes at the person I was before I rediscovered my old professor. I want to talk to that person.
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