It was such a simple answer that Koppel had to smile.
He asked Morrie about silence. He mentioned a dear friend Morrie had, Maurie Stein, who had first sent Morrie’s aphorisms to the Boston Globe.
They had been together at Brandeis since the early sixties. Now Stein was going deaf.
Koppel imagined the two men together one day, one unable to speak, the other unable to hear. What would that be like?
“We will hold hands,” Morrie said. “And there’ll be a lot of love passing between us.
Ted, we’ve had thirty-five years of friendship. You don’t need speech or hearing to feel that.”
Before the show ended, Morrie read Koppel one of the letters he’d received.
Since the first “Nightline” program, there had been a great deal of mail.
One particular letter came from a schoolteacher in Pennsylvania who taught a special class of nine children;
every child in the class had suffered the death of a parent.
“Here’s what I sent her back,” Morrie told Koppel, perching his glasses gingerly on his nose and ears.
“Dear Barbara... I was very moved by your letter. I feel the work you have done with the children who have lost a parent is very important.
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