and as I laid him in his chair, adjusting his head on the pillows, I had the coldest realization that our time was running out.
And I had to do something. It is my junior year, 1978, when disco and Rocky movies are the cultural rage.
We are in an unusual sociology class at Brandeis, something Morrie calls “Group Process.”
Each week we study the ways in which the students in the group interact with one another, how they respond to anger, jealousy, attention.
We are human lab rats. More often than not, someone ends up crying.
I refer to it as the “touchy-feely” course. Morrie says I should be more open-minded.
On this day, Morrie says he has an exercise for us to try.
We are to stand, facing away from our classmates, and fall backward, relying on another student to catch us.
Most of us are uncomfortable with this, and we cannot let go for more than a few inches before stopping ourselves. We laugh in embarrassment.
Finally, one student, a thin, quiet, dark-haired girl whom I notice almost always wears bulky white fisherman sweaters,
crosses her arms over her chest, closes her eyes, leans back, and does not flinch,
like one of those Lipton tea commercials where the model splashes into the pool.
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