He rocked against me, not letting go, his hands reaching up for my elbows as I bent over him.
I was surprised at such affection after all these years, but then,
in the stone walls I had built between my present and my past, I had forgotten how close we once were.
I remembered graduation day, the briefcase, his tears at my departure,
and I swallowed because I knew, deep down, that I was no longer the good, gift-bearing student he remembered.
I only hoped that, for the next few hours, I could fool him.
Inside the house, we sat at a walnut dining room table, near a window that looked out on the neighbor’s house.
Morrie fussed with his wheelchair, trying to get comfortable. As was his custom, he wanted to feed me, and I said all right.
One of the helpers, a stout Italian woman named Connie, cut up bread and tomatoes and brought containers of chicken salad, hummus, and tabouli.
She also brought some pills. Morrie looked at them and sighed.
His eyes were more sunken than I remembered them, and his cheekbones more pronounced.
This gave him a harsher, older look—until he smiled, of course, and the sagging cheeks gathered up like curtains.
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