They were loose because his legs had atrophied beyond normal clothing size—
you could get two hands around his thighs and have your fingers touch.
Had he been able to stand, he’d have been no more than five feet tall,
and he’d probably have fit into a sixth grader’s jeans.
“I got you something,” I announced, holding up a brown paper bag.
I had stopped on my way from the airport at a nearby supermarket
and purchased some turkey, potato salad, macaroni salad, and bagels.
I knew there was plenty of food at the house, but I wanted to contribute something.
I was so powerless to help Morrie otherwise. And I remembered his fondness for eating.
“Ah, so much food!” he sang. “Well. Now you have to eat it with me.”
We sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by wicker chairs.
This time, without the need to make up sixteen years of information,
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