people arrested, beaten, lying in the street in front of delivery trucks.
In light of this, my visits with Morrie felt like a cleansing rinse of human kindness. We talked about life and we talked about love.
We talked about one of Morrie’s favorite subjects, compassion, and why our society had such a shortage of it.
Before my third visit, I stopped at a market called Bread and Circus—
I had seen their bags in Morrie’s house and figured he must like the food there—
and I loaded up with plastic containers from their fresh food take-away,
things like vermicelli with vegetables and carrot soup and baklava.
When I entered Morrie’s study, I lifted the bags as if I’d just robbed a bank. “Food man!” I bellowed. Morrie rolled his eyes and smiled.
Meanwhile, I looked for signs of the disease’s progression.
His fingers worked well enough to write with a pencil, or hold up his glasses,
but he could not lift his arms much higher than his chest.
He was spending less and less time in the kitchen or living room and more in his study,
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