The Third Tuesday— We Talk About

"Mitch," he continued, softly now, "you don't understand. I want to tell you about my life. I want to tell you before I can't tell you anymore."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "I want someone to hear my story. Will you?"

I nodded.

We sat quietly for a moment.

"So, he said, "is it turned on?"

Now, the truth is, that tape recorder was more than nostalgia. I was losing Morrie, we were all losing Morrie—his family, his friends, his ex-students, his fellow professors, his pals from the political discussion groups that he loved so much , his former dance partners, all of us. And I suppose tapes, like photographs and videos, a desperate attempt to steal something from death's suitcase.

But it was also becoming clear to me—through his courage, his humor, his patience and his openness—that Morrie was looking at life from some very different place than anyone else I knew. A healthy place. A more sensible place. And he was about to die.

If some mystical clarity of thought came when you look death in the eye, then I knew Morrie wanted to share it. I wanted to remember it for as long as I could.