Some of these things I understand, some I do not. It makes no difference.
The discussions give me an excuse to talk to him, fatherly conversations I cannot have with my own father,
who would like me to be a lawyer. Morrie hates lawyers.
“What do you want to do when you get out of college?” he asks. “I want to be a musician,” I say. “Piano player.”
“Wonderful,” he says. “But that’s a hard life.” “Yeah.” “A lot of sharks.” “That’s what I hear.”
“Still,” he says, “if you really want it, then you’ll make your dream happen.”
I want to hug him, to thank him for saying that, but I am not that open. I only nod instead.
“I’ll bet you play piano with a lot of pep,” he says. I laugh. Pep? He laughs back.
“Pep. What’s the matter? They don’t say that anymore?”
The First Tuesday We Talk About the World
Connie opened the door and let me in. Morrie was in his wheelchair by the kitchen table,
wearing a loose cotton shirt and even looser black sweatpants.
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