It told of a mother who died from ALS. It expressed fear that she, the daughter, would also contract the disease.
It went on and on. Two pages. Three pages. Four pages.
Morrie sat through the long, grim tale. When it was finally finished, he said softly, “Well, what do we answer?”
The group was quiet. Finally, Rob said, “How about, ‘Thanks for your long letter?’”
Everyone laughed. Morrie looked at his son and beamed.
The newspaper near his chair has a photo of a Boston baseball player who is smiling after pitching a shutout.
Of all the diseases, I think to myself, Morrie gets one named after an athlete.
You remember Lou Gehrig, I ask? “I remember him in the stadium, saying good-bye.”
So you remember the famous line. “Which one?” Come on. Lou Gehrig.
“Pride of the Yankees”? The speech that echoes over the loudspeakers?
“Remind me,” Morrie says. “Do the speech.” Through the open window I hear the sound of a garbage truck.
Although it is hot, Morrie is wearing long sleeves, with a blanket over his legs, his skin pale.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색