Only a dozen or so students are there, fumbling with notebooks and syllabi. Most of them wear jeans and earth shoes and plaid flannel shirts.
I tell myself it will not be easy to cut a class this small. Maybe I shouldn’t take it.
“Mitchell?” Morrie says, reading from the attendance list. I raise a hand.
“Do you prefer Mitch? Or is Mitchell better?” I have never been asked this by a teacher.
I do a double take at this guy in his yellow turtleneck and green corduroy pants, the silver hair that falls on his forehead.
He is smiling. Mitch, I say. Mitch is what my friends called me.
“Well, Mitch it is then,” Morrie says, as if closing a deal. “And, Mitch?” Yes?
“I hope that one day you will think of me as your friend.”
The Orientation
As I turned the rental car onto Morrie’s street in West Newton, a quiet suburb of Boston,
I had a cup of coffee in one hand and a cellular phone between my ear and shoulder.
I was talking to a TV producer about a piece we were doing.
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