because it was too difficult now for Morrie to hold anything that long—to the lavaliere kind popular with TV newspeople.
You can clip these onto a collar or lapel. Of course, since Morrie only wore soft cotton shirts
that hung loosely on his ever-shrinking frame, the microphone sagged and flopped, and I had to reach over and adjust it frequently.
Morrie seemed to enjoy this because it brought me close to him, in hugging range, and his need for physical affection was stronger than ever.
When I leaned in, I heard his wheezing breath and his weak coughing, and he smacked his lips softly before he swallowed.
“Well, my friend,” he said, “what are we talking about today?”
How about family? “Family.” He mulled it over for a moment.
“Well, you see mine, all around me.” He nodded to photos on his bookshelves, of Morrie as a child with his grandmother;
Morrie as a young man with his brother, David; Morrie with his wife, Charlotte;
Morrie with his two sons, Rob, a journalist in Tokyo, and Jon, a computer expert in Boston.
“I think, in light of what we’ve been talking about all these weeks, family becomes even more important,” he said.
The fact is, there is no foundation, no secure ground, upon which people may stand today if it isn’t the family.
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