“Mitch. Can I tell you something?” Of course, I said.

“You might not like it.” Why not?

“Well, the truth is, if you really listen to that bird on your shoulder, if you accept that you can die at any time­then you might not be as ambitious as you are.”

I forced a small grin.

“The things you spend so much time on—all this work you do—might not seem as important. You might have to make room for some more spiritual things.”

Spiritual things?

“You hate that word, don’t you? ‘Spiritual.’ You think it’s touchy-feely stuff.”

Well, I said.

He tried to wink, a bad try, and I broke down and laughed.

“Mitch,” he said, laughing along, “even I don’t know what ‘spiritual development’ really means. But I do know we’re deficient in some way. We are too involved in ma­terialistic things, and they don’t satisfy us. The loving rela­tionships we have, the universe around us, we take these things for granted.”

He nodded toward the window with the sunshine streaming in. “You see that? You can go out there, out­side, anytime. You can run up and down the block and go crazy. I can’t do that. I can’t go out. I can’t run. I can’t be out there without fear of getting sick. But you know what? I appreciate that window more than you do.” Appreciate it?

“Yes. I look out that window every day. I notice the change in the trees, how strong the wind is blowing. It’s as if I can see time actually passing through that window­pane. Because I know my time is almost done, I am drawn to nature like I’m seeing it for the first time.”

He stopped, and for a moment we both just looked out the window. I tried to see what he saw. I tried to see time and seasons, my life passing in slow motion. Morrie dropped his head slightly and curled it toward his shoul­der.

“Is it today, little bird?” he asked. “Is it today?”

Letters from around the world kept coming to Morrie, thanks to the “Nightline” appearances. He would sit, when he was up to it, and dictate the responses to friends and family who gathered for their letter-writing sessions.

One Sunday when his sons, Rob and Jon, were home, they all gathered in the living room. Morrie sat in his wheelchair, his skinny legs under a blanket. When he got cold, one of his helpers draped a nylon jacket over his shoulders.

“What’s the first letter?” Morrie said.

A colleague read a note from a woman named Nancy, who had lost her mother to ALS. She wrote to say how much she had suffered through the loss and how she knew that Morrie must be suffering, too.

“All right,” Morrie said when the reading was com­plete. He shut his eyes. “Let’s start by saying, ‘Dear Nancy, you touched me very much with your story about your mother. And I understand what you went through. There is sadness and suffering on both parts. DRAWDEGrieving has been good for me, and I hope it has been good for you also.’”

“You might want to change that last line,” Rob said.

Morrie thought for a second, then said, “You’re right. How about ‘I hope you can find the healing power in grieving.’ Is that better?”

Rob nodded.

“Add ‘thank you, Morrie,’”Morrie said.

Another letter was read from a woman named Jane, who was thanking him for his inspiration on the “Night­line” program. She referred to him as a prophet.

“That’s a very high compliment,” said a colleague. “A prophet.”

Morrie made a face. He obviously didn’t agree with the assessment. “Let’s thank her for her high praise. And tell her I’m glad my words meant something to her.

“And don’t forget to sign ‘Thank you, Morrie.’”

There was a letter from a man in England who had lost his mother and asked Morrie to help him contact her through the spiritual world. There was a letter from a couple who wanted to drive to Boston to meet him. There was a long letter from a former graduate student who wrote about her life after the university. It told of a murder—suicide and three stillborn births. 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.

It was the first week in September, back-to­school week, and after thirty-five consecutive autumns, my old professor did not have a class waiting for him on a college campus. Boston was teeming with students, double-parked on side streets, unloading trunks. And here was Morrie in his study. It seemed wrong, like those foot­ball players who finally retire and have to face that first Sunday at home, watching on TV, thinking, I could still do that. I have learned from dealing with those players that it is best to leave them alone when their old seasons come around. Don’t say anything. But then, I didn’t need to remind Morrie of his dwindling time.

For our taped conversations, we had switched from handheld microphones—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 ion, 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. It’s become quite clear to me as I’ve been sick. If you don’t have the support and love and caring and con­cern that you get from a family, you don’t have much at all. Love is so supremely important. As our great poet Auden said, ‘Love each other or perish.’”

“Love each other or perish.” I wrote it down. Auden said that?

“Love each other or perish,” Morrie said. “It’s good, no? And it’s so true. Without love, we are birds with broken wings.