and I began to think that a tape machine between two people who were supposedly friends was a foreign object, an artificial ear.
With all the people clamoring for his time, perhaps I was trying to take too much away from these Tuesdays.
“Listen,” I said, picking up the recorder. “We don’t have to use this. If it makes you uncomfortable...”
He stopped me, wagged a finger, then hooked his glasses off his nose,
letting them dangle on the string around his neck. He looked me square in the eye.
“Put it down,” he said. I put it down. “Mitch,” he continued, softly now, “you don’t understand.
I want to tell you about my life. I want to tell you before I can’t tell you anymore.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “I want someone to hear my story. Will you?” I nodded.
We sat quietly for a moment. “So,” he said, “is it turned on?”
Now, the truth is, that tape recorder was more than nostalgia.
I was losing Morrie, we were all losing Morrie—his family, his friends, his ex-students, his fellow professors,
his pals from the political discussion groups that he loved so much, his former dance partners, all of us.
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