Although his teeth are crooked and his lower ones are slanted back—as if someone had once punched them in—
when he smiles it's as if you'd just told him the first joke on earth.
He tells my parents how I took every class he taught. He tells them, “You have a special boy here.”
Embarrassed, I look at my feet. Before we leave, I hand my professor a present, a tan briefcase with his initials on the front.
I bought this the day before at a shopping mall. I didn't want to forget him. Maybe I didn't want him to forget me.
“Mitch, you are one of the good ones,” he says, admiring the briefcase.
Then he hugs me. I feel his thin arms around my back.
I am taller than he is, and when he holds me, I feel awkward, older, as if I were the parent and he were the child.
He asks if I will stay in touch, and without hesitation I say, “Of course.” When he steps back, I see that he is crying.
The Syllabus
His death sentence came in the summer of 1994. Looking back, Morrie knew something bad was coming long before that.
He knew it the day he gave up dancing. He had always been a dancer, my old professor.
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