For a moment, I am sure she is going to thump on the floor.
At the last instant, her assigned partner grabs her head and shoulders and yanks her up harshly.
“Whoa!” several students yell. Some clap. Morrie finally smiles.
“You see,” he says to the girl, “you closed your eyes. That was the difference.
Sometimes you cannot believe what you see, you have to believe what you feel.
And if you are ever going to have other people trust you,
you must feel that you can trust them, too—even when you’re in the dark. Even when you’re falling.”
The Third Tuesday We Talk About Regrets
The next Tuesday, I arrived with the normal bags of food—pasta with corn, potato salad, apple cobbler—and something else: a Sony tape recorder.
“I want to remember what we talk about,” I told Morrie. “I want to have your voice so I can listen to it... later.”
“When I’m dead.” “Don’t say that.” He laughed. “Mitch, I’m going to die. And sooner, not later.”
He regarded the new machine. “So big,” he said. I felt intrusive, as reporters often do,
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