I also lost a parent at an early age...” Suddenly, with the cameras still humming, Morrie adjusted the glasses.
He stopped, bit his lip, and began to choke up. Tears fell down his nose.
“I lost my mother when I was a child... and it was quite a blow to me...
I wish I’d had a group like yours where I would have been able to talk about my sorrows.
I would have joined your group because...” His voice cracked....because I was so lonely...”
“Morrie,” Koppel said, “that was seventy years ago your mother died. The pain still goes on?”
“You bet,” Morrie whispered. He was eight years old.
The Professor
A telegram came from the hospital, and since his father, a Russian immigrant, could not read English,
Morrie had to break the news, reading his mother’s death notice like a student in front of the class.
“We regret to inform you...” he began. On the morning of the funeral,
Morrie’s relatives came down the steps of his tenement building on the poor Lower East Side of Manhattan.
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