My eyes jumped from the digital clock—my return flight was in a few hours—to the mailbox numbers on the tree-lined suburban street.
The car radio was on, the all-news station. This was how I operated, five things at once.
“Roll back the tape,” I said to the producer. “Let me hear that part again.” “Okay,” he said. “It’s gonna take a second.”
Suddenly, I was upon the house. I pushed the brakes, spilling coffee in my lap.
As the car stopped, I caught a glimpse of a large Japanese maple tree and three figures sitting near it in the driveway,
a young man and a middleaged woman flanking a small old man in a wheelchair.
Morrie. At the sight of my old professor, I froze. “Hello?” the producer said in my ear. “Did I lose you?...”
I had not seen him in sixteen years. His hair was thinner, nearly white, and his face was gaunt.
I suddenly felt unprepared for this reunion—for one thing, I was stuck on the phone—
and I hoped that he hadn’t noticed my arrival, so that I could drive around the block a few more times, finish my business, get mentally ready.
But Morrie, this new, withered version of a man I had once known so well, was smiling at the car,
hands folded in his lap, waiting for me to emerge.
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