Tuesdays With Morrie...
Morrie, I said softly. “Coach,” he corrected.
Coach, I said. I felt a
shiver. He spoke in short bursts, inhaling air, exhaling words. His voice was
thin and raspy. He smelled of ointment.
“You … are a good soul.” A good
soul.
“Touched me …” he whispered. He moved my hands to his heart.
“Here.”
It felt as if I had a pit in my throat.
Coach?
“Ahh?”
I don’t know how to say good-bye.
He patted my
hand weakly, keeping it on his chest.
“This … is how we say … good-bye
…”
He breathed softly, in and out, I could feel his ribcage rise and
fall. Then he looked right at me.
“Love … you,” he rasped.
I love
you, too, Coach.
“Know you do … know … something else…”
What else do
you know?
“You … always have …
His eyes got small, and then he
cried, his face contorting like a baby who hasn’t figured how his tear ducts
work. I held him close for several minutes. I rubbed his loose skin. I stroked
his hair. I put a palm against his face and felt the bones close to the flesh
and the tiny wet tears, as if squeezed from a dropper.
When his breathing
approached normal again, I cleared my throat and said I knew he was tired, so I
would be back next Tuesday, and I expected him to be a little more alert, thank
you. He snorted lightly, as close as he could come to a laugh. It was a sad
sound just the same.
I picked up the unopened bag with the tape recorder.
Why had I even brought this? I knew we would never use it. I leaned in and
kissed him closely, my face against his, whiskers on whiskers, skin on skin,
holding it there, longer than normal, in case it gave him even a split second of
pleasure.
Okay, then? I said, pulling away.
I blinked back the
tears, and he smacked his lips together and raised his eyebrows at the sight of
my face. I like to think it was a fleeting moment of satisfaction for my dear
old professor: he had finally made me cry.
“Okay, then,” he whispered.
Coach, I said. I felt a
shiver. He spoke in short bursts, inhaling air, exhaling words. His voice was
thin and raspy. He smelled of ointment.
“You … are a good soul.” A good
soul.
“Touched me …” he whispered. He moved my hands to his heart.
“Here.”
It felt as if I had a pit in my throat.
Coach?
“Ahh?”
I don’t know how to say good-bye.
He patted my
hand weakly, keeping it on his chest.
“This … is how we say … good-bye
…”
He breathed softly, in and out, I could feel his ribcage rise and
fall. Then he looked right at me.
“Love … you,” he rasped.
I love
you, too, Coach.
“Know you do … know … something else…”
What else do
you know?
“You … always have …
His eyes got small, and then he
cried, his face contorting like a baby who hasn’t figured how his tear ducts
work. I held him close for several minutes. I rubbed his loose skin. I stroked
his hair. I put a palm against his face and felt the bones close to the flesh
and the tiny wet tears, as if squeezed from a dropper.
When his breathing
approached normal again, I cleared my throat and said I knew he was tired, so I
would be back next Tuesday, and I expected him to be a little more alert, thank
you. He snorted lightly, as close as he could come to a laugh. It was a sad
sound just the same.
I picked up the unopened bag with the tape recorder.
Why had I even brought this? I knew we would never use it. I leaned in and
kissed him closely, my face against his, whiskers on whiskers, skin on skin,
holding it there, longer than normal, in case it gave him even a split second of
pleasure.
Okay, then? I said, pulling away.
I blinked back the
tears, and he smacked his lips together and raised his eyebrows at the sight of
my face. I like to think it was a fleeting moment of satisfaction for my dear
old professor: he had finally made me cry.
“Okay, then,” he whispered.