“Hey?” the producer said again. “Are you there?”
For all the time we’d spent together, for all the kindness and patience Morrie had shown me when I was young,
I should have dropped the phone and jumped from the car, run and held him and kissed him hello.
Instead, I killed the engine and sunk down off the seat, as if I were looking for something.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” I whispered, and continued my conversation with the TV producer until we were finished.
I did what I had become best at doing: I tended to my work, even while my dying professor waited on his front lawn.
I am not proud of this, but that is what I did. Now, five minutes later, Morrie was hugging me, his thinning hair rubbing against my cheek.
I had told him I was searching for my keys, that’s what had taken me so long in the car,
and I squeezed him tighter, as if I could crush my little lie.
Although the spring sunshine was warm, he wore a windbreaker and his legs were covered by a blanket.
He smelled faintly sour, the way people on medication sometimes do. With his face pressed close to mine, I could hear his labored breathing in my ear.
“My old friend,” he whispered, “you’ve come back at last.”
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