The men wore dark suits, the women wore veils. The kids in the neighborhood were going off to school,
and as they passed, Morrie looked down, ashamed that his classmates would see him this way.
One of his aunts, a heavyset woman, grabbed Morrie and began to wail: “What will you do without your mother?
What will become of you?” Morrie burst into tears. His classmates ran away.
At the cemetery, Morrie watched as they shoveled dirt into his mother’s grave.
He tried to recall the tender moments they had shared when she was alive.
She had operated a candy store until she got sick, after which she mostly slept or sat by the window, looking frail and weak.
Sometimes she would yell out for her son to get her some medicine, and young Morrie,
playing stickball in the street, would pretend he did not hear her.
In his mind he believed he could make the illness go away by ignoring it.
How else can a child confront death? Morrie’s father, whom everyone called Charlie, had come to America to escape the Russian Army.
He worked in the fur business, but was constantly out of a job.
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