after the latter had gone on a TV talk show and said he had a crush on him.
I put the paper away. Morrie was rolled back in—smiling, as always—and Connie went to lift him from the wheelchair to the recliner.
“You want me to do that?” I asked. There was a momentary silence, and I’m not even sure why I offered,
but Morrie looked at Connie and said, “Can you show him how to do it?” “Sure,” Connie said.
Following her instructions, I leaned over, locked my forearms under Morrie’s armpits,
and hooked him toward me, as if lifting a large log from underneath.
Then I straightened up, hoisting him as I rose. Normally, when you lift someone,
you expect their arms to tighten around your grip, but Morrie could not do this.
He was mostly dead weight, and I felt his head bounce softly on my shoulder
and his body sag against me like a big damp loaf. “Ahhhn,” he softly groaned.
“I gotcha, I gotcha,” I said. Holding him like that moved me in a way I cannot describe,
except to say I felt the seeds of death inside his shriveling frame,
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