His eyes were more sunken than I remembered them, and his cheekbones more pronounced. This gave him a harsher, older look - until he smiled, of course, and the sagging cheeks gathered up like curtains.

I watched him now, his hands working gingerly, as if he were learning to use them for the first time. He could not press down hard with a knife. His fingers shook. Each bite was a struggle; he chewed the food finely before swallowing.. The skin from his wrist to his knuckles was dotted with age spots, and it was loose, like skin hanging from a chicken soup bone.

Had it not been for "Nightline," Morrie would have died without ever seeing me again. I had no good excuse for this, except the one that everyone these days seems to have.
I had become too wrapped up in the siren song of my life. I was busy.

I may be dying, but I am surrounded by loving, caring souls. How many people can say that?

Do I wither up and disappear, or do I make the best of my time left?..
He would not wither. He would not be ashamed of dying.

He had refused fancy clothes or makeup for this interview. His philosophy was that death should to be embarrassing; he was not about to powder its nose.